Yasmine

Up Next: TLIBTW Chapter 21 & 22 'The Measure of His Surrender' Submissive!Newt x Reader WBTY Chapter 1

[sephoutlet]

𑣲 Welcome In 𑣲

"I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life." — F. Scott Fitzgerald (Nick Carraway)

𑣲 Yasmine (She/Her) 18+

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𑣲 Ongoing Series: TLIBTW, The Open Doors, Back To God, & Wander Back To You

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[sephoutlet]

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine." —  Song of Solomon 1:2

Newt x Fem!Reader Series 𑣲 Chapter 20 𑣲 WC: 2,965 A/N: I hate this chapter with all my heart. Let's just pretend it doesn't exist and move on.

"Aris said they bring in a new batch every night."

"Who the hell is Aris?" Minho mutters, and Thomas lifts his chin slightly, pointing across the cafeteria. You follow his gesture. Slowly. Yet, even that feels like too much effort.

There's a kid sitting alone in the corner, hunched over a tray he hasn't touched. His grey hood is pulled low over dark hair, and his eyes flick around the room like he expects to be mugged.

You look away.

You don't really give a shit about who Aris is.

You don't give a shit about much of anything, lately.

You haven't been here long, but this place feels like it's swallowed years of your life. You eat, barely. You sleep. You endure medical testing. You sit in a room full of strangers and pretend you're fine.

That's it.

You could stay here forever. Floating. Suspended in some strange limbo where nothing matters. Nothing can hurt worse than it already does. Is that a blessing, or a curse?

Outside this facility, the world is waiting. A cruel, unforgiving world where Chuck doesn't exist anymore. You're not ready for it. You can't just 'keep living' like everyone else seems to be content with.

They put you in a separate bunk from the others: A dorm full of girls you don't know, and don't care to. They're strangers who whisper to each other at night while you lie awake, staring at the ceiling until it swallows you whole.

You've never felt more alone, and that's saying something, because the Maze was supposed to be the worst thing that's ever happened to you, but even the Glade wasn't this lonely.

Not with Chuck there.

"Until we know anything for certain," Newt says in a hushed voice, leaning over the table. "We should just keep our heads down and try not to draw attention to ourselves."

In that moment, Thomas slams his palm so hard against the metal table, trays rattle. He's on his feet in an instant, eyes already locked on you.

He stares with the same reckless certainty he always does, like the space beside him has your name on it. Like you're guaranteed to follow, as you always have.

You always have.

You've been present for every terrible plan. Every impossible sprint towards danger and death. You are the inventor of such thoughtless action.

You can still remember how that spark felt sometimes, and the adrenaline that once constantly rushed through your veins, but now, your body belongs to someone else.

You stare back at him, guilt pressing sharp in your stomach, because he's waiting for you to stand too. To stand with him. He's waiting for you, and all you can think about is how tired you are.

Everywhere you go, you turn into a weight that drags behind everyone else like a chain tied to their ankles. You feel like a curse. So, instead of moving, you lower your head onto the table.

The metal is cool against your forehead. You hear Thomas exhale long through his nose. It's not an angry sound, and somehow, that makes it worse. His footsteps fade into the noise of the cafeteria, and you close your eyes.

You don't want to watch him have the strength you've lost.

"What's that dumb Shank doing?" Frypan murmurs beside you.

"Dunno," Newt answers. "But he looks bloody determined." Something taps the top of your head. Twice. You crack your eyes open and rise enough to see Newt's index finger retreating. "You're not going with him."

It's not a question, but an observation.

"Good to know your eyes still work." You whisper.

"She speaks!" Minho exclaims from the other side of the table. "Some words would've been nice a couple night ago, instead of the violent assault I got."

You glare at Minho.

In all fairness, you did smack an entire tray out of his hands and onto the floor hard enough to send soup splattering across his clothes. Minho's been dramatic about it ever since.

"Leave her be." Newt sighs tiredly.

"I am now." Minho shoots back. "Not exactly eager for more second-degree burns." Guilt would've followed a comment like that. Fortunately, you don't have to sit with the words long, because raised voices cut across the cafeteria.

"Woah! Hang on. You weren't called." 

"Just gonna be a second—"

"This is a restricted area, kid."

Your eyes drift towards the noise. Thomas stands near one of the guarded doors, arguing with a guard who looks to be built like a concrete wall.

His shoulders are tense beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, hands moving sharply while he talks, too restless to stand still for even a second.

He's insane.

Maybe this is what it looked like when you did this:

Running ahead without thinking. Dragging everyone else after you whether they wanted to follow or not. Making people watch with dread heavy in their stomachs.

Crazy. 

That's what they called you.

You don't feel crazy anymore. You feel nothing. Empty. Like you could fold inward and disappear completely. The world wouldn't even flinch at the empty space.

You don't have the energy for this. For Thomas' reckless heroics. For another fight. For anything. You're a worthless, hollow shell of the girl you were.

"I just wanna see my friend." Thomas insists sharply. "Let me through."

"Get your ass back in the chair." The guard jabs his finger hard into Thomas' chest. Thomas rocks back a step, hands lifting in a surrendering motion.

"Oh, thank God." Minho groans beside you, eyes trailing Thomas as he takes a couple convincing steps back. "I thought we were about to watch him get tased."

Thomas glances back toward the table.

Towards all of you,

And your stomach drops instantly.

You know that look. You see the microscopic shift in his stance. The weight settles in the balls of his feet like a runner waiting for the gunshot.

"We still might." You mutter, dragging yourself from the chair.

Your body protests.

Your bones feel filled with wet sand. Every movement is heavy and slow. Too slow. You should've gone with him earlier. Maybe you could've stopped whatever he's about to do.

Thomas lunges.

The guard swears loudly as Thomas slams into him, both of them crashing sideways into the doorway. Chairs screech against the floor as the others surge to their feet.

"Thomas!" Newt snaps.

You're slower to move across the cafeteria than the others. It's pathetic what you've become. You once prided yourself on the fact you could outrun the Glade.

Now, you're left behind.

You reach them just as Newt hooks both arms around Thomas' chest, yanking him backward before he can swing again. Thomas thrashes against the hold hard enough for Minho to join the restraint.

You catch his arm before he can wrench free. Thomas stumbles slightly from the added force, turning toward you with wild, uneven breathing. His eyes flash over your face, looking both startled and relieved that you followed at all.

"What's happening here?" Janson barrels through the crowd, irritation flashing before it smooths into something practiced. "Thomas!" He says, like they're old friends. "I thought we could trust each other. You know we're all on the same team here." 

"Are we?" 

The question hangs there, and for split second, nobody moves. Janson's smile falters. A twitch at the corner of his mouth most people wouldn't catch.

"...Get them to their bunks." Janson says. No raised voice. No anger. Just an eerie coolness that floods you with unease. The guards move. You don't resist when rough hands close around your bicep.

The hallway is a bustle of motion.

Shoes squeak against the polished floor. Someone protests. Someone else swears. A guard shoves between your shoulder blades, steering your direction.

"The hell was that, Tommy?" Newt's voice echoes harshly down the corridor. "We finally end up somewhere halfway decent, and you're eager to whittle it down to rubbish?"

Thomas doesn't respond.

Or maybe he does.

The guards are shoving you in a different direction, and whatever Thomas mutters gets swallowed by the noise of the hallway before it can reach you.

The group splits apart.

You're alone again.

Well, mostly alone. The guard beside you falters in step. Your pace is significantly slower than his, and he struggles to find footing that matches yours.

"Could you walk any slower?" He exhales through his nose. Apparently, you can, because he's force to once again shorten his stride when you lag behind with legs moving through invisible mud. "Pick up the pace."

You try.

By the time the guard drops you off at your dormitory, he looks more frustrated than anything. The door shuts behind you with a harsh metalic clink.

He's glad to be rid of you.

Isn't everyone?

The room is empty. No whispering strangers to pretend you're not there. No lingering stares from girls who survived different horrors. Just rows of bunks and buzzing overhead lights. You drift toward your bed and sit on the edge of it.

The girl in the bunk beside yours had been whispering about you the other night. Nothing inherently cruel, but her curiosity felt so. You're the only one from a different maze, after all.

If only Teresa were here. You don't even know where she is. You should, shouldn't you? She's another girl from your Maze. They should've placed you together.

Instead, you're here. Alone in a room that belongs to people you barely speak to. Just another place where you don't fit in. There's a surplus of places like that, apparently.

A metallic creak cuts through the air. 

Your eyes shift downward slowly. The vent near the floor rattles once before the grate pops loose. You stare at it without reacting, thoughts lagging sluggishly behind the sound.

Maybe it's a rat. 

A really big rat. 

Maybe it'll crawl out and chew you to pieces.

Honestly, that sounds exhausting for the both of you. You're significantly bigger than a rat. Even a big one. How many bites would it take for a rat to eat you?

Something moves inside the vent. A hand pushes through first. So, not a rat. Then, a grey hood and pale skin. You blink slowly. That's Thomas' little friend.

What was his name again?

"Come on." He whispers urgently, and you stare back at him.

"...What?" 

"Thomas told me to come get you."

You frown.

"...Get me?" 

"Yes. Get you." He shifts impatiently. "I don't have time to explain. He's waiting." He holds a hand towards you. You look at it. Then at him. The back at the hand.

Of course, Thomas is waiting. 

A long breath leaves your lungs. You don't ask questions. You don't argue. You don't have the energy to really think about it. Besides, life can't exactly get worse from here.

You push yourself up, a flicker of pain shocking your knee as your leg straightens. You steady yourself by taking advantage of the vent-boy's hand.

Aris.

Right.

That's his name.

The metal vent is freezing under your palms as you pull yourself inside. The space is immediately too tight, walls pressing around your shoulders while your injured knee drags awkwardly behind you.

You keep crawling anyway. What would complaining accomplish? Aris moves quickly ahead of you, barely checking to make sure you're still following.

It's irritating, the way none of them will leave you alone. Especially Thomas. He doesn't let you quietly disappear into yourself. He still thinks there's something left in you. Something worth being hopeful about.

Chuck thought that too.

Look where that got him. 

Aris finally stops, pushing another grate open with a quiet scrape. Light spills through the vent, and you squint, crawling out after him, emerging onto solid ground. 

Oh. 

This is the boys' dorm. 

"Hey Thomas." Aris says quickly. "You got it?" Thomas turns to face you and Aris, holding up a white keycard between his fingers. He must've swiped it from the guard earlier.

"What the—"

"Who is this kid?" 

Voices overlap and confusion emerges as the others try to make sense of whatever insane plan Thomas has concocted. Aris shrinks slightly under the attention, hood pulling lower over his head.

"Alright, look," Thomas steps as a shield between Aris and the others. "Maybe you guys are right. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I gotta find out for sure. Just cover for me." Before anyone can argue, he's already motioning at the open vent, ushering both you and Aris toward it. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

You blink, then point vaguely at yourself.

"...Me too?"

"Uh," Thomas looks at you as though the answer is obvious. "Yeah, you too. Come on." He motions again more urgently toward the vent. "Move."

"I don't even know what you're doing."

"You'll figure out what we're doing on the way. Let's go. Let's go."

"I don't wanna figure it out on the way."

"You'll be fine."

"Thomas, I don't want to."

"Yes, you do."

Huh?

"Uhh, No? I really don't."

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired." Your voice cracks slightly. "I don't feel like crawling through weird vents or— Or stealing things from guards or— Anything." You fold your arms across your chest. "I don't even wanna be here."

Thomas goes still in a way that you rarely ever see from him. The whole room is still, every eye on Thomas, waiting to see if he's willing to take 'no' for an answer.

He doesn't.

"Yes, you do."

What?

"What?" Your eyebrows knit together, frustration sparking in your ribs. "You can't just say that. You can't just say stuff and make it true. These are my—"

"Yeah, I can."

Did this fuckass just interrupt you?

"You literally cannot." You shout, irritation festering into a flame that consumes your lungs. "For Shuck's sake, do you just like to hear the sound of your own voice? You're the most ignorant, arrogant—"

"There!" Thomas cuts you off, exclaiming as if you've just proven his point. "If you've got the energy to yell at me, you've got the energy to come with me."

"What?" You stare at him in utter disbelief, feeling as though you've just been dropped into an awful sitcom. "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"You've got a bunch of energy now, don't you? Let's use it." He speaks, and you scoff. He's deliberately scraping at your nerves until you give reaction.

You hate that it's working.

Your fury burns. You hate how he pushes. You hate that he won't accept your exhaustion. You hate how he still looks at you with the certainty and faith Chuck used to give you.

Chuck.

Chuck, who would grin at you through scraped knees and terror. He believed in you with a vigor you never deserved. He thought you could save everyone.

You can't.

You don't want to go through that vent. You hardly want to go anywhere. You want to stay in a foreign room forever. Alone. Safe from having to care about anyone too much ever again.

Stupid Thomas won't let you wither.

Stupid Thomas.

Your eyes flick to the others, waiting to see the irritation you keep telling yourself they feel for you. Waiting for a look that will confirm that Thomas is the idiot for seeing something more.

You don't find it.

Frypan and Minho look more curious than anything. Winston— Well, you sort of forgot he was even here, but he doesn't look bothered either. Newt looks worried. Not irritated or disappointed, but worried.

They aren't looking at you the way you keep envisioning they do. They look at you the same way they look at Thomas now: They're waiting for you to move.

They followed you here, didn't they? Chuck isn't the only life which rested on your shoulders. These people trusted you enough to leave their home behind.

They still do.

You glance back to Thomas and his waiting expression. Even after the days you've spent barely talking, ignoring him and giving up on yourself, he hasn't.

Idiot.

You owe something this to this idiot at the very least.

Get over yourself.

Quit being selfish.

Just go.

"Okay." An empty sound escapes your lips, the remnants of reaction to the absurdity of Thomas' ragebait method.

"I still think this is a bloody awful idea." Newt says, and Thomas groans, already ushering you toward the vent and ignoring Newt. "S'Always the two of you, 'innit?"

Seriously?

That passive aggressive comment is a perfect testament as to why you and Newt have never gotten along.

"They're hiding something." Thomas argues. "We don't have time to argue about this. If you're right, you're right. If you're wrong, you're welcome."

"You're going to get us all killed someday."

"But not today." Thomas nods confidently before crouching near the entrance of the vent. He speaks your name, waving a hand for you to join him.

Before you commit, you glance to Newt. He's already watching you. His gaze moves over you slowly, lingering on details that make the heat crawl unpleasantly under your skin.

He scans your face, most certainly absorbing the exhaustion on it. His eyes move lower still, to your waist, your hands, and finally your knee, where your weigh shifts unevenly to avoid the pain.

"You don't have to go." Newt says quietly, void of pressure and dripping in concern. Your eyes flicker to the vent again, where Thomas is waiting for you.

You shake your head, taking a step back from Newt and in the direction of the vent. He watches you for another long moment before giving a small nod.

A nod.

Maybe he's not so bad.

You lower yourself carefully into the vent, metal biting cold against your palms once more. Yet, the warmth of Newt's understanding keeps the journey bearable.

[sephoutlet]

And actually God wouldn’t have put so many baddies on this Earth if he didn’t want me to be a wlw

[tlockish]

Dude I recently found a Newtmas fic on A03, and delectable. I’m sure you’ve probably read it, but idk who else to talk to about it

It’s The Blood Culmination by persnickett

so no one told me there was a 250k fic about newtmas (evil number btw) ??? Summer plans here I come

[persnickett]

i meannnnn it's maybe an out-there idea, but @sephoutlet could always talk to me about it ;) (sorry about the number, no idea how that happened...)

[sephoutlet]

HELLO???? IS EVERYONE ELSE SEEING THIS???

First of all, I'm amazed by the organization of your writing style. The quality of your work is utterly dumfounding, and it's rare that I latch on to a piece of fanfiction the way I've sunk my teeth into 'The Blood Culmination'.

Your characterization of Thomas and Newt is incredible, and if I could have any goals for writing Newtmas content, it would be that it has a fraction of the accuracy your writing has.

Not to mention, it's long. In a very, very good way. I often find myself writing series that have dozens of chapters, and I almost feel guilty for it.

Yet, you've reminded me, that as a reader, if I enjoy the content, I don't care how long the series is. if anything, I want to consume more and more.

You've done an incredible service to the TMR fandom. Thank you.

[sephoutlet]

EUREKA!!!! IVE GOR IT!!!!! I KNOE WHAT IM GOING TO WRIEW FOR CHAPTWR 20!!!!!!!! WE ARE SO BACK!!!!

[sephoutlet]

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine." —  Song of Solomon 1:2

Newt x Fem!Reader Series 𑣲 Out Of Your Mouth 𑣲 WC: 2,931 A/N: This was a cut scene I never planned on fully writing, but I'm having such a hard time with chapter 20 that I went ahead and did it.

Everything about the room feels intentionally designed: The metal table bolted to the floor, the two chairs positioned perfectly across from one another, and the blinding overhead light that bleaches everything it touches.

You sit stiffly in one of the chairs, brace locked around your knee, and hands folded in your lap, because where else are you supposed to put them?

You can't really remember being brought here. One moment, you're half asleep, staring at ceiling tiles while trying not to think about anything at all. The next, you're here, beneath this awful light.

"My name is Dr. Dallas." The woman across from you offers a practiced smile. She looks somewhere in her thirties, black hair pulled back without a strand out of place. Her clothes are void of wrinkles and the red of her lipstick is too vivid for her skin.

"Okay."

Dr. Dallas doesn't react to the lack of enthusiasm. If it bothers her, she's trained herself not to show it. She lifts her chin slightly instead, fingers gliding across the surface of the transparent tablet balanced in her hands.

"I'm one of the coordinators here." She says. "I oversee intake and adjustment for our new arrivals." Adjustment. Like you're an animal being transferred to a new enclosure. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's alright."

"Sure." You shrug one shoulder.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Fine."

"Any pain? Physically?"

"No."

"Not in your knee?"

Your gaze drops downward.

The brace is bulky. Ugly. The straps are cinched so tightly around your leg that they bite into the fabric beneath. You can feel an ache buried deep in the joint if you focus hard enough: Bruised bone, mangled muscle, and healing tissue that feels like a faraway pain belonging to someone else.

"No."

"I see." Dr. Dallas purses her lips. "Well, you seem like a smart young woman, so I'll cut right to the chase." She sets the tablet down between you and folds her hands neatly on the table. "The medical team flagged some concerns about your adjustment."

"Okay."

"Over the past few days, they've noted low appetite, social withdrawal from your intake group, limited engagement with the—" Her voice dissolves into background noise.

This is pointless.

You already know the shape of the conversation she's trying to build toward, carefully circling around it like she's afraid saying it outright would spook you. Every sentence lays out the groundwork for a real question.

Are you unstable?

Are you dangerous?

Are you going to hurt yourself?

They're worried because they don't understand you. Nobody does anymore. None of them can recognize the difference between wanting to die and simply not caring to live.

"I'm not going to kill myself."

Dr. Dallas flinches.

"I wasn't accusing you of such a thing." She says evenly as her expression smooths back into place. "I'm here as a resource. Someone you can talk to."

"I know."

"I'm sure you do." She sighs softly, saying your name as if trying to make it sound gentler than you've ever heard it. "I heard about an incident yesterday evening. Would that be something you're willing to talk about?"

"Incident?"

"You knocked a food tray out of a boy's hand." Her fingers tap lightly against the tablet screen as she scrolls through notes. "You're from the same maze. Minho, if I'm not mistaken."

"Oh."

Your eyes drift away from her.

The memory is vivid: The irritating cafeteria lights, Minho standing across from you with that frustrated look on his face, and the tray he held as an offering to the wounded, stray animal you've become.

'Eat something.' He always says. 'Come on. Don't be a stubborn Slinthead.' He's been doing that for days now: Sliding food you don't want toward you during meals.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Strike the tray."

"Oh." You blink. "He wouldn't stop."

"He's been attempting to coax you into eating, yes?"

"Yeah."

"And that upset you?"

"He's pushy." The answer comes out sharp.

It's ironic, really. Back in the Maze, people used to call you pushy too. Too loud. Too stubborn. Too opinionated. Too unpredictable. You used to wear those accusations with pride. Now, you finally understand how exhausting it is to have someone constantly pressing.

"Pushy is one word for it," Dr. Dallas says, leaning forward in attempt to catch your eyes. "But from what I've observed, he seems concerned about you."

"Good for him." The bitterness rises so quickly, it surprises you. Dr. Dallas lets it dissolve into agonizing silence. Possibly intentionally. Possibly thinking you'll eventually fill it.

You don't. Instead, you stare at the table while she reaches for her tablet again. The brittle tap of her manicured nails against glass echoes in the tiny room.

"I've also reviewed your intake interview."

"My what?"

"The questions you were asked upon arrival."

You frown.

The first few days you were here feel smeared together in your memory, muddled with bright lights, needles, and too many hands grabbing at your knee.

"I don't remember."

"That's alright." Her tone stays easy. "You were quite exhausted at the time. We can go over it now." Her eyes flick briefly to her screen as she scrolls. "Why don't you tell me a little about your maze?"

Your mind immediately betrays you.

Chuck flashes across your thoughts first. It's not even a full memory. Just pieces of him. His silly grin, the way he talked with him mouth full, and the sound of his giggles when you snuck out in the middle of kitchen duty.

You shove the memories down so hard, it hurts.

Another memory surfaces to replace it: Your first run into the Maze, and that dreadful encounter with a Griever. Even now, thinking about them makes your skin crawl.

All twisted machinery and wet flesh fused together with clicking needles and rotating blades slick in old blood. Their bodies moved in unnatural, jerking spasms that are enough to make your stomach turn.

They're monsters designed by people, and yet, part of you thinks it would've been easier if one of them got to you. If they'd torn you to shreds beneath those stone walls instead of leaving you here under fluorescent lights to answer questions from strangers who pretend to care.

"...It was a maze." You mutter finally. Dr. Dallas waits. "There was stuff trying to kill us." Your tone sharpens, irritation prickling beneath your tongue.

What kind of question is that? 'Tell me a little about your maze'. As if there's a good way to explain the terror to someone who only knows of it from a clipboard.

"Yes. So I've heard." She nods thoughtfully. "I understand that you were the only girl in your maze for quite some time. Is that correct?"

"Yeah."

"And how did that make you feel?"

You shrug, fingers finding a loose thread near the cuff of your sleeve, twisting it tighter and tighter around your fingertip until it nearly cuts the circulation off.

"I don't know. Didn't feel anything."

"Nothing at all?"

"No."

A lie.

God, you hated it, not because you were lonely, but because they looked at you so differently. They underestimated you immediately. Some resented you for existing at all.

You still remember Adam's careless taunts, and the humiliation that perpetually burned so hot in your chest, it might as well have split through your ribs.

You fought to become ferocious in a way that was impossible to ignore. Someone Thomas trusted without hesitation, and Chuck admired as a sister.

Where did she go?

Where is that girl now?

It's pathetic what you've become.

"I also had the chance to review some of the others' interviews." Dr. Dallas continues after a moment. "You were a common topic of conversation."

A few weeks ago, you would've leaned forward, hungry for detail. Who said what? In what tone? Are they impressed? Amused? You would've picked apart every sentence.

Now, the thought barely stirs anything inside you, because there was only one opinion that was every truly worth something to you, and now it's gone.

He's gone.

"Okay."

"Would you like to know what they said?"

Your eyes narrow. Not at the question, but at the strategy behind it. She's building the conversation, nudging carefully at weak spots to see which ones hurt when pressed.

This irritates you more than outright cruelty would've. She's trying to make you feel safe. To coax you into opening up willingly. Maybe it works on some people. Maybe some hear soft voices and spill themselves like overturned drawers.

All you can think about is how clinical this place is. How, inside that tablet, your grief is being translated into bullet points. What category will they put you under once they're done emotionally dissecting you?

She is no different from anyone else who's wronged you.

"Sure." You say finally. "I guess." Dr. Dallas nods once, like she expected that answer.

"Well, Thomas speaks very highly of you. He described you as brave and reliable. Someone who doesn't hesitate." She begins. "Frypan mentioned you became very useful in the kitchen. He seems fond of you."

This catches you off guard. Frypan hadn't liked you in the beginning. He often snapped at you in the first couple weeks. Granted, you purposely made his day harder.

You can't pinpoint the exact moment it changed, and maybe there wasn't one. Somewhere along the line, arguments became teasing. Hatred became friendship. Trust built so slowly, you only notice it once it's already there.

"Nice." You say quietly.

Dr. Dallas searches for something bigger. When nothing comes, her mouth tightens. She picks up the tablet again, and types something short.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

You hate that sound.

"Minho noted that you have potential." She says, placing the tablet back down. You try not to visualize his worried expression yesterday after you'd knocked the tray from his hands. "Said you push yourself harder than most would dare."

"Sounds right."

"And Newt is particularly defensive about you."

Your chest pulls unexpectedly. You chew lightly on the inside of your cheek, unsure of how to absorb that information. 'Defensive' doesn't sound right.

You fight constantly. The only thing of note between you is friction. You push against his authority, and he pushes back harder, because he's got nothing better to do than ruin your life. Half the time, it feels like you have to bleed for a scrap of approval from his.

"He's not."

"That wasn't the impression I got." Dr. Dallas leans into a silent stalemate that neither of you intends to lose. Her nails tap against the tabletop. "...I've also heard mention of someone named Chuck."

Everything inside you goes rigid.

Your first instinct isn't sadness.

It's anger.

How dare they. How dare they sit in rooms like this and say his name to strangers. How dare they hand pieces of him over to people who never knew him.

You're suddenly furious at all of them. Chuck is the last thing in this world that still belongs to you. They have no right to explain him. Not to her. Not to anyone.

"Heard." You repeat, flat. "Heard from who?" Your tone is slicing, and Dr. Dallas' eyebrows raise. Finally, she's dragged a reaction out of your hollow bones.

"He came up in multiple interviews. They described him as your—"

"I don't want to talk about this." The words spew out like vomit. You fold your arms tightly across yourself, fingernails impaling into your sleeves hard enough to burn.

Who gives a shit what they described him as? You know what he was. None of their words could ever be enough to capture his essence anyway.

He was best friend.

He was the first person to believe in you.

He was your brother.

Your brother.

"I know this is very hard, but it's important to have difficult conversations in order to move on." Dr. Dallas says carefully. You don't want to 'move on'. "I'm trying to understand what—"

"You don't need to understand anything." Your voice cracks through the room like a whip. "You weren't there."

"I know I wasn't."

"Then don't act like you were." You grind your teeth together painfully, the words barely escaping through the grit. "Don't try to insert yourself into something you know nothing about."

Calmly, Dr. Dallas leans back in her chair.

"...You cared deeply for him."

The silence that follows leaves room in the air for accusation. Is loving someone so much evidence of instability? Is grief itself something suspicious? Must you eternally be so monitored? So contained?

The tone of accusation is insulting. Caring about Chuck was never weakness. It was the best thing about you, and now, there's nothing good left.

She reaches for the tablet again.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Can you not?" The sound of her typing slices too firmly into your skull. "Can you not write this down?" You grit, gesturing rigidly toward the screen.

"Does it bother you?" She hums. Of course it bothers you. You already feel flayed open sitting in this room. Your every emotion pins you like a specimen to glass. "If Chuck were—"

"Take his name out of your mouth." Your voice raises enough to bounce off the walls. "I said I don't want to talk about this. Didn't you hear me?" You demand. "Are you deaf or stupid?"

"Well, there's no need to be aggressive." For the first time since entering the room, Dr. Dallas' voice pulls. "Lower your voice."

Lower your voice.

You've heard these words before.

You've heard it from boys who think anger looks uglier on girls. From people who decided you were unstable from the second your emotions stopped being easy to tolerate. From authority figures who prefer little gifts of smiling obedience.

Lower your voice.

Sit still.

Calm down.

Be easier.

Be smaller.

You're sick of it. You're sick of being treated like something volatile. A problem. A specimen. You survived the Maze. You survived monsters. You clawed your way out of captivity. You lost your brother in the name of escape,

Only to end up here.

Still trapped.

Still caged.

Everything in this place is offensive. Her smile. Her red lipstick. Her stupid clicking nails. The tablet. The brace around your knee. Your own body. Your grief. The pulse in your throat.

The fact that your heart still beats at all.

It shouldn't.

Chuck's doesn't.

So why should yours?

"I will not." The words rip out of your mouth before you can think. Not that you think much before you speak anyway. "I'll raise my voice if I damn well please. I'll knock trays over. I'll stop eating. I'll do whatever the hell I want."

"Excuse me?" A crease forms between Dr. Dallas' brows.

"You're excused." Your chest rises too fast, and you can hear your pulse in your ears. "I do whatever I want. I always have. Isn't that what you heard in those little interviews?"

"You're overstep your reach, young lady."

The sentence is like gasoline on a flame.

You overstep.

Overstep.

You'll show this bitch overstepping.

"Maybe you're just bitter because you can't." The venom comes too easy. "You can't do what you want. You sit in rooms like this all day and pick people apart."

"That's quite enough—"

"You're stuck in a useless job surrounded by people who don't respect you." You continue. "So you analyze somebody younger because it gives you something to do. Something that makes you feel important."

"I suggest—"

"Do you feel important?" You coo. "Because you're not. You're not important, and no amount of talking out of your ass will ever make you feel like you're enough." Your voice trembles. "You're nothing."

Look at you.

Look at the creature you've become: Biting and bleeding into your own mouth, hurting people and throwing tantrums just because you're in pain.

Chuck would hate you for this.

"Well," Dr. Dallas stands smoothly, one arm wrapping around the tablet as her chair scrapes eerily back against the floor. "I think that's enough for today."

"Wonderful."

You lean back hard against the chair. The rage has nowhere to go anymore, so it compresses inwards until it's no longer anger, but emptiness.

Dr. Dallas' heels click against the tile as she walks toward the guarded door. One step. Two. Three. Then, she pauses and turns back. Her expression is void of any softness that may have been there before.

"I understand you're wresting with a great deal right now," She says in professional rehearsal. "But I need you to understand something as well."

"Hm?" You stare back, too exhausted to be furious.

"We will not tolerate further incident. No altercations. No disruptions." Her eyes harden when they meet yours. "If you're going to be a waste of resources, do so quietly."

The sentence doesn't surprise you, but it confirms the fear you've always had: Your feelings only matter when you're useful. Grief has a deadline, and all broken things become too expensive eventually.

Nobody cares about you.

The door opens. Voices blur beyond it, but you barely hear a word. Your jaw is clenched so hard, you feel it in your ears. You chomp down on the inside of your cheek.

Pain answers pains.

By the time you're limping down the hallway, copper floods your mouth. You walk past white walls, locked doors, and people who glance away quickly.

When you pass a small trash bin near the corner, you spit. Redness streaks the inside. Bright red. You're alive. You're bleeding. You must be alive,

But you don't feel it.

Nobody stops to ask why you're bleeding.

[sephoutlet]

hii are there going to updates for TLIBTW anytime soon 🐣

Inbox Message: 5/12/2026 Reply: 5/12/2026

Hey! Thanks so much for checking in on my passion project. TLIBTW is truly my baby, and I want to get to delivering more for y'all so bad.

The trouble is, I’ve hit a total roadblock with chapter 20. I know exactly what I want to do for chapters 21+, and I'm burning to get to them, but there's one scene in chapter 20 that has me dumbfounded.

Throughout this series, I've been trying to build Reader into a character that’s raw and relatable in a very realistic, human way. That's backfiring, because she genuinely feels like a totally separate person to me. I'm trying to figure out exactly what she would do/say in a very high pressure scene, and I'm agonizingly stuck.

So, to answer your question, I really hope I get the next several chapters out to you really speedily. As soon as I figure out chapter 20, I imagine the rest will flow out like a fountain of inspiration. However, for now, I'm stuck.

Thank you, for caring enough to ask and check in on this. I appreciate it more than words can express. I'm so sorry that it's taking me so long to serve more.

XOXO, Yasmine

[sephoutlet]

SEPH.

TAKE THIS RN OR I WILL LITERALLY COMBUST. YOU ARE TOO NICE AND I AM LITERALLY JUST GONNA

RESPECTFULLY.

I LOVE YOU. 🫰

Inbox Message: 5/5/2026 Reply: 5/5/2026

PEACHY KISS ME!!

You're so sweet! I swear, I'm so excited whenever I see a notification from you. I also see you've posted another chapter of your series, and I'm running to go read it RIGHT NOW!

If y'all aren't familiar, Peachy has a wonderful Newtmas Hunger Games AU series! I'll link it right here. She's a truly talented writer, and the aesthetic of her blog is spectacular.

My DM's are always open to you Peachy <3 Literally any time I'm ever tagged in anything, it's you. Thank you so much for being an amazing mutual.

XOXO, Yasmine

[sephoutlet]

Hii! Just wanted to say to keep up the good work with your newt x female character story!! I really love it, and I’m hoping for future updates and of course for you to finish it! As Newt maze runner fanfiction are so rare!

Inbox Message: 3/18/2026 Reply: 5/5/2026

Thank you so much! I'll admit, I'd been slowing down with the updates on TLIBTW. That's partially due to the other pairings I've been exploring, and the massive plot point I'm trying to figure out for chapter 20. I'd sooner die than have a plot hole.

I was also considering cancelling the series, but let us not worry about that.

I'd also like to take a moment to apologize for how long it takes me to respond to messages. I see all of you in my inbox, and I swear I'll give you the proper attention you deserve!

I've been working on TLIBTW for about 6 months now, and I'm almost halfway through the series as I intend it. With every chapter, the story becomes more and more complex, and it becomes harder to capture the message I'm trying to convey.

I'd also like to note that I've received a couple suggestions for the series, and I'm thankful for those! Though I can never really guarantee using the suggestion, it helps me get my creative juices flowing. I'll never not be interested in yapping about TLIBTW.

Anyways, I apologize if this post is a little incoherent. I'm swamped with finals and personal endeavors, but I'll never forget about y'all. More TLIBTW coming (hopefully) soon!

XOXO, Yasmine

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

i always mean it when i say i love you btw

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

‘but thats a stranger you dont know’ and i love them. i love that they exist and i love that they passed through my life. and i love u too btw

[teathattast]

reblog to tell your mutuals you love them for existing

[immortal-fish-0-0]

Filled with so much love I have no idea what to do with it all

[skeletal-spire-man]

@lightsabersandbluecookies

[caravalxjurdan240]

@flyerguardian @itzursafespace @colourobserver @thepotoftoes

+ others I forgot cause this is literally at night

[colourobserver]

Awww ilysm!!

@justpeaxchy @milytae @manukoda @my-little-universes @aly221bbakerst @blueotter24 @zorsblog13 @flo-buzzer346

[justpeaxchy]

ohmygosh I actually love you sosososososososo much Gia DONT PLAY WITH ME

@dragonmasterhiccup @sephoutlet @mycateatsmypillow @brendabobqueen @ellzsbananas love yall!!!

[sephoutlet]

HELLO? OH MY GOSH! I LOVE YOU TOO!

My mutuals are genuinely the coolest people ever, and every time I see one of you in my notifications, I do 14 summersaults in your honor.

@kobiiioo @justpeaxchy @newthelcain @newtsbambi @tlockish @ashley-foster-13

I LOVE MY MOOTS! GO CHECK THEM OUT!

[sephoutlet]

"Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again." — Homer

Thomas x Newt 𑣲 Modern Soulmate AU 𑣲 WC: 5,632 A/N: WARNING We've got some really dark themes ahead. I'm not playing around. Can't spell 'Newtmas' without 'doomed'. Also, I'm not hydrated enough for the tears I cried writing this.

Monday, August 18 — 8:16a.m. ꒾ Time Left: [00:02:02:04:09:28:35]

Thomas is never graceful when he wakes.

There's a snore caught in the back of his throat. His face is half buried in a pillow, damp with drool. One arm is flung somewhere above his head. The room is dim, morning light leaking in through the crooked blinds in thin, pale stripes.

His alarm buzzes again. He doesn't turn it off. He simply rams his palm forward, searching for 'snooze' blindly. He misses. Twice. Then, finally silences it with a groggy groan that dissolves back into sleep.

A few seconds pass.

Then—

"Shit—!"

His voice is sleep heavy, panic snapping through it as he fumbles for his phone, nearly dropping it in the process. His heart stutters as he squints at the screen, bracing for the time:

8:16a.m.

He swears under his breath, threading a hand through his already tangled hair, trying to do the calculations in his head: How late is he? How fast can he get to campus? Is it even worth going?

Then he sees the already open email.

'Subject: CLASS CANCELLED - MONDAY'

He reads it twice, just to be sure. The tension drains out of him so quickly, it leaves him dizzy. He lets out a laugh and falls backward onto the bed again, phone landing somewhere over his chest and the tangle of blankets. The ceiling stares back at him.

For a moment, he considers going back to sleep and letting the day slip by. There's no rush. No lecture to sprint to. No reason to drag himself out of bed before noon. Absentmindedly, he tilts his phone up. August 18th.

August 18th.

Once again, he jolts up too quickly. His pulse spikes in excitement as he throws the sheets off in a mess of tangled fabric. August 18th: It's his 18th birthday.

He's been waiting for this longer than he can remember. Longer than he's willing to admit out loud. Every birthday before this one has only been a countdown to the one that actually matters.

His fingers brush over the skin that was bare yesterday. The skin which now houses thick, bold numbers ticking steadily downward. Finally. They're here.

He grins.

Somewhere out there, his soulmate is alive and breathing, and now he knows how much time she has left. He knows that when he finds her, the numbers will stop ticking, forever frozen in the point of her life which they met.

His eyes are still fixed on his arm when the grin becomes a frown.

The first number starts with zero.

He blinks at it, confused, like maybe he's misread. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, then looks again. It's still there, the timer ticking down:

[00:02:02:04:09:26:14]

He mutters to himself, trying to remember the order: Years, months, weeks— Right? No. Perhaps, centuries? Centuries, years, months— No. That's not right.

His mother used to drone on about it all the time, insisting that he pay attention, because he should understand it before the day came. He remembers tuning her out half the time, assuming he'd just figure it out when it happened.

Now, it's happened,

And he has no idea what he's looking at.

He lets out a nervous laugh, squinting harder at his arm, as if the numbers will somehow rearrange themselves in a way that makes sense. Instead, the seconds keep slipping away.

[00:02:02:04:09:25:58]

He grabs his phone, fingers typing in quick, clumsy bursts: 'soumlate timer order'. The results own almost immediately: 'Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds'. He reads it again, taking it apart piece by piece.

That can't be right.

There must be some mistake, because that would mean his soulmate has zero years, two months, two weeks, four days, nine hours, twenty-five minutes, and— The number drops to thirteen seconds.

He shivers, chest tightening with an unfamiliar dread. He's supposed to have years. He's supposed to have full decades to find and build a life with her. Not this.

He's already halfway out of bed before his mind can fully catch up. His feet barely find the floor as he stumbles into the hallway. The numbers don't stop. The numbers don't slow down.

So, he'll just have to be quicker.

He doesn't knock properly when he gets to his roommate's door. He just bangs on the wood in such a violent way that it would make his landlord cry. Then, he pushes in.

"Ack—" Minho groans from the bed, one eye barely opening to squint toward the doorway. "Dude, what the fuck—?" Thomas shoves his arm out like it's evidence of a crime.

"Shut up. Look at this."

"Oh." Minho's tired eyes flick between Thomas' face and his arm. "Happy birthday?" He mumbles automatically, already starting to flop back down.

"No, fuckface. Look at the numbers."

"Alright. Alright." Minho exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself upright. He leans forward, studying the numbers for a second. Then another. Thomas catches the exact moment sleep leaves his friend's face. "Oh."

"You see it too?"

Minho reaches out, grabbing Thomas' wrist to look closer. His thumb presses on the skin like he expects it to wipe off, hoping this is some sort of cruel prank from Thomas.

It doesn't.

It keeps counting.

[00:02:02:04:09:22:41]

[00:02:02:04:09:22:40]

[00:02:02:04:09:22:39]

Minho lets go.

"Shit." He whispers. "I'm— I'm sorry, Thomas."

"What?" Thomas laughs shortly. "No. Sorry for what?" He shakes his head, already backing away. "No. No— Because— This is just wrong. Something's wrong with it, and when I find her, we'll figure out what's going on."

"Thomas, you have two and a half months."

"Yeah, and?"

"And it takes most people fucking years." Minho says slowly, trying to make sure his words stick. "She could be anywhere. She could be on the other side of the planet, for all you know."

Thomas doesn't hesitate.

"Then I'll go there."

"What? That's not what I meant—"

"It doesn't matter where she is," Thomas cuts in, already turning toward the door. "I'll find her." His hands are shaking as he drags his sleep shirt over his head, nearly tripping over his own feet. "I don't care how far I have to go. I'm going."

"Going?" Minho throws his legs over the side of the bed, following his trembling friend down the hall of their messy apartment. "Going? What are you talking about? Where?"

"Everywhere."

Minho doesn't follow Thomas into his bedroom.

He doesn't try to stop him.

Drawers are yanked open. Clothes are thoughtlessly shoved into a backpack without folding, along with a laptop, charger, phone, wallet, and passport.

Thomas checks his bank account. It's not much, but it doesn't matter. He zips the bag shut anyway, his heart still racing with the numbers ticking down on his skin.

[00:02:02:04:09:14:49]

He slings the bag over his shoulder, refusing to give himself to second guess what he's about to do. He's willing to leave behind his life as he knows it,

Because someone out there doesn't have much of one left.

Wednesday, September 3 — 1:42a.m. ꒾ Time Left: [00:02:00:02:16:30:28]

The bus hums beneath him with a vibration that seeps into his bones. The air smells of overripe fruit and the windows are dark, reflecting more from inside than out, so all Thomas can really see is himself. His arm rests on his knee so he can keep glancing at it.

[00:02:00:02:16:30:19]

"Wait, so," Minho's voice crackles through his cheap earbuds, slightly delayed and distorted. The video on Thomas' phone freezes for half a second before catching up again, Minho's face shifting from concern to confusion. "Where are you again?"

"Brasil." Thomas doesn't even look up from his laptop. He says it like he's just down the street, and it didn't take a considerable chunk of his savings to get here.

"...Right," Minho exhales, leaning back wherever he is. "And what's the plan exactly?" Thomas glances from Minho's face to the mess of tabs open in front of him.

"I told you." He says, clicking between pages. "I've been cross-referencing birth records with population density and migration patterns. There are regions where she's statistically more likely to be. If I narrow it down enough—"

He keeps rambling in numbers, probabilities, and percentages. Something about age ranges and life expectancy that Minho doesn't fully understand.

"Okay," Minho says slowly, carefully. "I think I get that. It makes sense. Kind of."

"Of course it does—"

"But," He continues, interrupting Thomas' next calculation. "That's assuming your soulmate is in the majority. She could be a random person in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, right?"

The cursor on Thomas' screen blinks. He leans back in his seat, the worn fabric creaking beneath him. He stares at nothing while he considers, and the numbers tick down on his arm.

[00:02:00:02:16:27:01]

"Right." He murmurs. Minho opens his mouth, probably to backtrack, but it's already too late. "Then I guess my next stop is the middle of bum-fuck nowhere."

"Okay, wait—"

Thomas ends the call.

The screen goes dark, Minho's voice cutting off mid-sentence, leaving nothing, but the hum of the bus. He closes his laptop and leans his head against the window. It's cold.

His eyes fall shut for only a second before they open again and look at his arm. It's still counting: A physical testament to the time slipping through his fingers.

He exhales,

And begins planning his next stop.

Sunday, September 21 — 4:09p.m. ꒾ Time Left: [00:01:02:00:01:34:44]

The city is loud.

Voices overlap in languages Thomas barely understands, footsteps thrum against pavement, and cars rush past in blurred streaks of color and sound.

He pushes through anyway, eyes always scanning: Faces. Arms. Movement. Anything. Everything. Unfortunately, he's surrounded by dead ends.

His pulse pounds in his ears, but he doesn't slow down. He can't. In every moment he hesitates, he feels his soulmate slipping further out of reach.

He checks his arm.

[00:01:02:00:01:34:27]

Still dropping.

"Fuck me." He mutters under his breath. Someone brushes past him. Another face. Another possibility. Too many faces. Too many possibilities.

His phone rings. The sound cuts loudly enough for him to flinch. He fumbles for the device, nearly dropping it when he pulls it from his pocket.

'MOTHERBOARD'

He hesitates.

Then answers.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom."

"Thomas! Hi!" Her voice is warm, and completely unaware. "How's the internship? You sound tired. Are you eating? Have you been showering? Every day?"

"Yeah." He laughs. "Yeah, every day. I'm sorry I haven't called. It's busy here. A lot of work. You know?" He keeps walking as he talks, weaving through people.

"What are you working on again?" She asks. "Data research things, I know, but your father wants to make a post about it on Facebook. We're so proud of you."

"Yeah. You know. Data stuff. Numbers." He says quickly. It's not exactly a lie. "I'm good with numbers."

"God knows you didn't get that from me." She teases. "I'm glad you're taking this seriously. For a while there, your father and I were worried, but now you've really taken such an interest in your future."

His eyes flick to his arm.

[00:01:02:00:01:22:59]

Future.

She talks for a while longer. Thomas only listens in fragments, offering responses when he needs to and nodding even though she can't see it. His attention splits in too many directions at once.

When the call ends, Thomas lowers his phone slowly. Then, he unlocks it for the first time in days. Messages flood the screen, mostly from Minho.

'ur mom called me' 'wtf am i supposed to tell her' 'shes asking questions i dont have answers to' 'thomas' 'thomas' 'seriously' 'thomas" 'any luck??????'

Thomas huffs out a quiet laugh. His fingers hover over the screen, his exhausted mind conjuring a vague response: 'No, but thanks for covering.'

He hits send,

And his phone immediately rings again.

Thomas closes his eyes briefly, then answers. Minho's face fills the screen, brows furrowed, scanning over him like he's assessing damage through the camera.

"You look like shit."

"Nice to see you too." Thomas snorts.

"I'm serious, douchebag." Minho grumbles. "Have you slept? Like, at all?"

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked." Minho's tone is sharp. "Thomas, come home. Professor Lawrence was asking about you, and your mom is constantly texting me for updates when she can't get ahold of you."

"I'm not coming back."

"Thomas—"

"I said I'm not coming back." He snaps. "Not until I find her."

"And what if you don't?"

There's a beat of silence.

Thomas doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks down at his arm, and the ticking reminder that his soulmate only has a little over a month and a half left.

He glances back up.

"I will."

Monday, October 6 — 2:17a.m. ꒾ Time Left: [00:00:04:01:03:27:15]

The room is entirely dark aside from a tiny flicker of orange light coming from somewhere outside, slipping through the mold scented curtains. Thomas sits on the floor. He doesn't remember how or when he got here.

His back is against the bed, legs pulled in, one hand tangled hard enough with his hair for it to hurt. His laptop sits open in front of him, tabs stacked so high they've stopped showing titles altogether.

His phone buzzes again and again. He doesn't look at it. He hasn't looked at it in hours. Days. Maybe longer. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters.

He drags back his sleeve with shaky fingers.

[00:00:04:01:03:27:07]

Then, he blinks.

[00:00:04:01:03:22:18]

No.

His stomach twists, and he mutters broken curses to himself, his voice breaking as his hand comes down hard against his arm, like he can force the countdown to stop.

It keeps going.

[00:00:04:01:03:20:55]

Where is the time going?

Thomas scrambles forward, grabbing his phone. His fingers slip as he unlocks it, pulling up the designated timer app. He cross-checks, desperate to prove that fate is stealing time from him.

"Stop." He whispers to the numbers.

He hasn't slept. Not properly. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees it anyway: The ticking countdown burned into his vision. Seconds slip into minutes, which slip into days, which slip into months, which slip into years.

Years his soulmate doesn't have.

She has four weeks.

Four weeks, and a handful of days.

Thomas drags himself upright in uncoordinated jerks, his body lagging behind his thoughts. He can't stop. He won't stop. His eyes return to his arm.

[00:00:04:01:03:18:54]

Still ticking.

Still leaving him behind.

Saturday, October 18 — 6:33p.m. ꒾ Time Left: [00:00:02:02:23:11:25]

Thomas' phone has been lit up for a while, but he doesn't touch it. Besides, he already knows what's there: Missed calls, messages, and notifications stacked on top of each other until they blur into a single, overwhelming pressure that he doesn't have the energy to carry.

There are hundreds of messages. 'MOTHERBOARD' shows up more than anything else. She'd called the school last week, asking questions and piecing everything together: There was never any internship. Never a plan for the future.

Minho's messages have been a blend of uncertainty:

'ur mom called again' 'pls what am i supposed to say' 'this is so fucked up bro' 'thomas' 'call me' 'call me' 'call me' 'call me' 'ur a dick' 'pls call me' 'what do i say' 'call me'

Thomas forces the screen dark and lets the device drop into his lap.

The city around him is unfamiliar. Germany, he thinks, or at least last time he checked. It doesn't really matter anymore. Every place is the same conclusion.

Streets have blurred together. Different languages, different faces, but the same empty feeling settling deeper and deeper into his chest with every step.

He closes,

And she creeps into his mind.

Not real, or as someone he's seen, but a mingle of possibilities: Maybe she's quiet. Maybe she's loud. Maybe she hates mornings the way he does.

Maybe she loves biology too. Maybe she would sit across him with a textbook open, pretending to study while really looking at him. Maybe she plays something: Guitar? Piano? Flute? Maybe she would've taught him.

He swallows hard and opens his eyes.

Does she know?

Does she feel it? Does she feel her life slipping away the same way he does, or does she think she has time? Does she think she has decades? Does she wake up every morning believing she'll live long enough for love?

If she doesn't know, should he tell her when he finds her?

If he finds her?

Does he tell her she's dying?

His hand curls into a fist against his knee as he checks his arm again.

[00:00:02:02:23:06:41]

Two weeks.

He drops his arm back down harder than necessary. It doesn't matter if she knows. It doesn't matter if she doesn't. It doesn't matter what she 'would've' been like, or what she 'might've' loved, or what they 'could've' had,

Because he just has to get to her first.

Saturday, November 1 — 11:59p.m. ꒾ Time Left: [00:00:00:02:17:45:04]

The line crackles with a bad signal.

"So, where are you now?"

Thomas leans against the side of a building; the rough brick pressed into his shoulder. His phone is wedged between his ear and collarbone while he adjusts the strap of his bag.

"Chichester."

There's a pause.

"Chichester? Where the hell is that?" Minho scoffs, and Thomas huffs a laugh. He missed the sound of his friend's voice, and the sass that comes along with it.

"Uhh... Not far from London, I think."

"You think?"

Thomas glances up, scanning the foreign street. The signs mean nothing. The buildings blur together in a dim haze of stone and people who don't look at him twice. He's been lost for a while. It doesn't feel new anymore.

"Yeah. I don't know. It doesn't matter." He says, because it doesn't. There's only one direction that matters now, and he hasn't even found it yet.

"How much time left?"

"2 days. Ish." Thomas doesn't have to look. The number is etched into his very existence. Every thought, every breath, and every step is burned by the countdown.

"Shit, man." Minho exhales sharply on the other end.

"It's not over yet." Thomas tilts his head back, staring up at the night sky. It's dull. Clouded over. There isn't a star in sight. It's just empty space where everything should be.

"...Okay."

"Look, I need to go. I should grab a bite somewhere." Thomas swallows, the lie catching in his throat. "I'll call you." He doesn't say when, and Minho doesn't ask.

"Yeah," Minho replies. "You'd better."

Tuesday, November 4 — 11:46a.m. ꒾ Time Left: [00:00:00:00:05:57:50]

Cars pass. Voices bleed together. The city moves around Thomas, but he can't hear anything the same way he used to. Everything feels muffled. Distant. He doesn't even remember the past few weeks.

He just knows he's still moving.

His arms hang at his sides, sleeves pushed back hours ago and never pulled back down again. The numbers are there, ticking at the corner of his vision, no matter where he looks.

[00:00:00:00:05:56:41]

Five hours, fifty-six minutes, and forty-one seconds until the love of his life is extinguished, and he will have never even had the chance to know her.

The bell chimes overhead. He steps inside. There's the scent of coffee and something sweet enough to almost make him feel human again. The door shuts behind him.

Something shifts.

There's an immediate pull, like a rope has wrapped itself around his chest, tugging him in an inexplicably foundational way. Goosebumps ripple up his arms, skin prickling like his body is trying to tell him something his mind can't comprehend.

All at once, everything becomes nothing. The constant noise in his head, the relentless awareness of time slipping, and the ringing in his ears stop.

She's here.

Thomas swallows hard, his eyes drifting across the room with overwhelming uncertainty. There's no obvious sign. No indication. Just people. Just strangers.

Until his gaze snags on someone.

He sits a few tables away, half turned in his chair with one hand wrapped loosely around a coffee cup gone lukewarm. There's nothing extraordinary about him at glance. He's just someone existing, like everyone else in the room.

Yet, Thomas can't look away.

The man is effortless.

His golden hair is pulled back into a messy bun, strands slipping free to frame his perfect face. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, toned forearms exposed, one resting lazily on the table while the other holds his phone. He's leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out slightly, unguarded in a way that feels foreign to Thomas now.

This isn't what he expected.

This is not the face he built in fragments during sleepless nights, nor the vision he tried to piece together from nothing, but somehow, now that he's here, now that Thomas is looking at him,

There has never been a more beautiful person.

He's an angel, most certainly. He must've fallen from the heavens. Something so breathtaking doesn't belong to the same world as everyone else.

The stranger's brows furrow slightly, like he can feel the weight of Thomas' stare, and the magnetic pull tightening into something which can't be ignored. He shifts, then glances up.

Their eyes meet.

They go still. Thomas' breath holds, and the angel straightens his posture. A blend of emotions crosses his expression: Confusion, and perhaps recognition.

Thomas looks down.

The numbers have frozen.

[00:00:00:00:05:51:14]

When Thomas' eyes snap back up, the stranger is already looking at his own wrist, the numbers on his arm also frozen in confirmation: A permanent reminder of the moment Thomas found him.

[73:09:10:02:11:40:01]

Seventy-three years.

No wonder this stranger was never searching. Why would he? He thought he had time. Seventy-three years to stumble into Thomas somewhere down the line.

Thomas drags his sleeve over his own arm so quickly, it almost burns. He hides the truth before it can ruin the moment any more than it already has.

He realizes, distantly, that he probably looks like hell. His hair is definitely a mess. His clothes are probably wrinkled. He probably looks like he hasn't slept in days.

He hasn't.

He forces his feet to move, one step after another, closer and closer until he's standing at the edge of the table. The stranger— His stranger, looks up at him with a cool curiosity.

Thomas studies him, knowing this man is going to die in a matter of hours. A broken laugh slips out from his lips, completely at odds with the tears that blur his vision.

"I've been looking for you." The words tumble out raw before he can stop them. The angel's mouth quirks, one eyebrow lifting slightly in amusement.

"Well," He begins with a warm voice and an accent wrapping his words. "That's quite the thing to say to someone you've just met, Mate." Thomas huffs another shaky laugh, scrubbing the evidence of tears from his face.

"Yeah— Y-Yeah, I know. I just—" He gestures vaguely in the air, as if that might be explanation. It's not, but the stranger doesn't seem to mind either way. "...Can I sit?" He blurts instead.

His soulmate stares, taking in Thomas' trembling hands, his uneven breathing, and the way he seems on the verge of vomiting on the fancy tile floor.

He nods.

Thomas drops into the seat across from him, gripping the edge of the table. When he's this close, everything about his soulmate feels worse, or better.

His jawline is sharp. His eyes are bright. He's so vividly alive in a way that Thomas wants to memorize, but knows he doesn't have the time for.

"I'm Newt." He offers casually.

"Thomas." He replies quickly, too quickly, clearly absorbing everything he can gather from this moment.

"Where are you from, Thomas?"

"California."

"The States." Newt hums thoughtfully. "You're a long way from home."

"Yeah." Thomas shrugs, his shoulders too stiff. "I... Travel."

"For fun?"

"Something like that."

"Right," Newt's mouth twitches, like he can tell that isn't the truth, but he doesn't press. "And what do you do when you're not mysteriously crossing continents and staring at strangers in cafés?"

"Biology, or— I was. University."

"'Was'?"

"Yeah. Took a break." Thomas' fingers tighten against the edge of the table. "What about you?"

"Journalism." Newt says. "Well, trying to be. I write for a small paper."

"That's so cool." Thomas' throat tightens as he says it, tears threatening to spill.

"Cool?" Newt shrugs, a small smile pulling at his lips. "It pays the bills. barely."

"What do you write about?"

"Anything they'll let me." He replies. "Local bits, human interest stories, and the occasional political rubbish no one else wants to be responsible for."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is, but I like it." He smiles, and Thomas swallows down a sob. "Have you got family?" Newt asks after a moment, trying to balance the conversation.

"Only child." Thomas murmurs. "Adopted."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And your parents? They're alright with you doing..." Newt pauses, gesturing vaguely to Thomas' wild appearance. "...Doing... Whatever this is?"

"Oh," Thomas looks down. "Didn't really give them much of a say."

"Hm. Fair enough." Newt doesn't judge. He simply absorbs. "I've got a little sister myself." He adds offhandedly. "Still in high school. Thinks she knows everything."

"I'm sure she does." Thomas finally lets the ghost of a smile find his lips.

"Oh, absolutely," Newt scoffs. "Impossible to argue with. Reckon I stopped trying years ago."

"What's her name?"

"Lizzie." Newt grins, like the name itself carries love.

"Lizzie. That's pretty." Thomas repeats it in his mind, over and over, committing it to memory, because it matters. Everything relating to Newt matters.

The conversation continues.

About nothing.

About everything.

Thomas learns Newt's favorite food and listens to him retell silly childhood memories. He learns of all the places Newt's been, and all the places he wants to go. The places he doesn't realize he'll never see.

Thomas barely talks about himself.

When Newt asks, he answers vaguely, redirecting the conversation back to Newt almost immediately. Anything that lets him learn more. Keep more.

Every second is slipping. Even if the numbers have stopped. Even if the cruel hand of fate has paused for one merciful moment, the end is still coming. Every moment is a miracle, and it's still not enough.

It will never be enough.

"Alright." Newt checks his phone eventually, glancing at the time before exhaling softly. "I should probably—"

"No, wait—" Thomas jumps to his feet before he can calm his racing pulse, the words slipping out in a suspiciously desperate jumble. "Can I come with you?"

"Come with me?" Newt blinks, surprise curling in his features. "I could give you my number?" He offers. "Meet up another time?"

"No— I don't— I don't have—" Thomas shakes his head violently, cutting himself off. "Please." The word is strained, his voice cracking somewhere between a whine and a sob.

Newt freezes, and his gaze drops to where Thomas' sleeve is pulled too tightly over his wrist. His lips press into a line, and when he looks back up, a devastating understanding is written on his face.

"...Right." He murmurs, his eyes lingering over the tears and desperation on Thomas' face, which he can't seem to hide, no matter how hard he tries. "Alright. Come on."

So, they leave together, side by side in a way that feels agonizingly normal. As if this is something they've done before, and will do again, except Thomas knows better.

He notices Newt's limp once they make it a few steps down the sidewalk. It's slight. Easy to miss if you're not looking for it, but right now, Thomas is looking at everything.

"What happened?"

"To what?" Newt glances down, then shrugs. "Oh. Old injury. Nothing exciting."

"Oh." Thomas lets out a soft sigh, but the relief is microscopic. "Okay."

As they keep walking, Newt tells Thomas about the story he's working on. It's something small and local, but it clearly matters to him, despite how hard he tries to downplay it.

Thomas listens like it's the most important thing he's ever heard.

Because it is.

Because he is.

Even as Thomas laughs at all the right moments, even as he responds and nods and keeps pace beside Newt, tears slip silently down his cheeks.

This is everything he dreamed of.

This is everything he crossed the world for,

And it's already ending,

And there's nothing he can do to stop it.

Saturday, November 15 — 10:58p.m. ꒾ Time Left: N/A

The front door creaks when Minho pushes it open. It's the same high-pitched squeal Thomas remembers like it's something from another lifetime.

Minho's hand is firm around his arm, steadying Thomas as he steps inside. The apartment smells like the same laundry detergent and citrus candle he left behind. It shouldn't feel as unfamiliar as it does, but lately, everything is unfamiliar.

"Careful." Minho murmurs, guiding him to his bed. Thomas doesn't argue. he doesn't speak. He just lets himself be moved and lowered down like a delicate piece of fine china.

The mattress dips beneath him, and he stares blankly ahead. Minho sits beside him, his hand coming up to rest on Thomas' arm in slow strokes meant to be comforting.

Everything is exactly as he left it. Books are stacked on the desk, abandoned mid-semester. Notes are scattered. Clothes are folded lazily over the chair.

This is a space which once belonged to a haphazard boy who thought he had time. Someone who looked forward to the infinite possibilities of the future. Someone who hadn't realized all the horrors those possibilities included.

"Catecholaminergic polymorphic ventricular tachycardia." Thomas says eventually, the clinical words feeling nauseating in his mouth. "I'd never even heard of it."

"I know." Minho whispers.

Thomas nods faintly, even though there's nothing to agree with. His eyes drop to his wrist. The numbers are still there. They don't move. They never will again. They're permanently frozen in place:

[00:00:00:00:05:51:14]

A glorious five hours, fifty-one minutes, and fourteen seconds was all he got with his soulmate. All he will ever have.

"He was spectacular."

The words don't capture the way Newt existed. They don't capture his dry, but effortlessly hilarious humor. They don't capture his passion for his work, or the story that will forever go unfinished.

Nothing Thomas could say would ever be enough to make up for the loss. For the fact he'll never get to wake up beside Newt. For the tragedy that he had never gotten to say 'I love you'.

"I know." Minho's fingers tighten where they rest against Thomas' arm. "I'm sure he was."

"He really was."

Thomas doesn't say anything more, because how can one explain a feeling like this? How can he begin to express what it felt like to love someone in the span of hours? To love them so completely, that losing them feels like losing a part of yourself.

"Your mom's flying in tomorrow." Minho adds after a moment. "I'll set up the pull-out. You sit tight, alright?" Thomas nods. Minho lingers for a second, like there's more he wants to say.

There's nothing he can say.

The door clicks shut when he leaves.

Silence settles over Thomas, squeezing into every dark corner of the room. He doesn't move. He doesn't think. Time doesn't mean anything anymore.

Eventually, slowly, his hand shifts. He reaches for his phone and swipes it open, the bright screen lighting the room harshly. His fingers move automatically to the one photo he can't stop gravitating to.

It's a blurry, crooked selfie taken in the middle of a busy street. Newt is laughing, sunlight caught in his hair like woven gold. Thomas is barely in frame, eyes red and smile uneven.

He stares at it.

he memorizes it.

Every line.

Every detail.

His grip loosens and the phone slips from his hand, landing softly against the blankets. His vision blurs with salty tears and he stands too fast.

The room is too small for his grief.

He crosses to the window and fumbles with the latch before forcing it open. Cold air rushes in immediately. He inhales, tears streaming freely down his face as he overlooks the city. Lights stretch endlessly into the distance, flickering with life in a way that feels cruel now.

He should've shown him this.

All of it.

The skyline, the noise, the way the world feels when it's wide open and brimming with opportunity— But not only that. He would've shown Newt all the small things too. The insignificant things that would've meant everything if they'd only had time.

Time.

Time is a curse.

Too little when it mattered, and too much now that it doesn't. He has seventy-three years of this: Waking up in a world that doesn't have meaning. Of carrying a piece of someone he loved entirely without even knowing him.

It doesn't have to be this way.

Thomas' fingers curl tightly around the edge of the windowsill. He leans forward, and the night air envelopes him, pulling at him like a siren's song.

The street below is empty and distant. His grip tightens and his knuckles go white. On the other side of several stories and pavement, his soulmate waits.

He throws his legs over the edge, sitting on the precipice.

His mother used to tell him he always held on to things too tightly: Toys. Ideals. People. Perhaps, if he'd just gripped hard enough, nothing could slip away.

He hasn't changed.

Even now, he's holding on too tightly: To a voice. A laugh. A handful of hours that felt more meaningful than his entire life. A future that will never exist. A windowsill.

With one deep breath, Thomas lets his eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in his life,

He lets go.

[sephoutlet]

Hey seph😳😳 sub thomas/gally smut where reader lowk overstims one of them please i love ur writing sm ugh

"I look at you, and I just love you, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me what I would do for you." — Alexandra Bracken

NSFW Gally x Fem!Reader 𑣲 WC: 2,364 A/N: Hii Bambi. I'm so sorry. I'm agonizingly slow with requests. Feel free to shame me.

"Ngh— I love you."

The air between you is humid and heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Gally's body does rigid above you, his hips pressed deep, his release still warm inside you. For a moment, there's only the sound of your own ragged breathing and the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs.

You stare up at him, your ankles still hooked behind your eyes, the position suddenly feeling absurdly vulnerable. His face is shadowed, turned slightly away, but you can still catch the tightness in his jaw and the way his throat bobs as he swallows. The flush that painted his chest and neck seems to deepen, spreading up to the tips of his ears.

He said it.

You know he did. You heard it. It was muttered, sure. A breathless escape of words lost in the gasp of his climax, but unmistakable, nonetheless.

"What was that?" The cocky smile that sparks on your face is a dare thrown into the thick silence. You watch Gally's tense body as he finally moves, pulling out of you with a slick sound that makes your stomach clench. He rolls off to the side, putting his back to you.

"Nothing." He grunts, the word clipped. He reaches for the discarded pair of pants tangled at the foot of the bed, his movements jerky. "You heard nothing."

You let your legs fall. The stretch in the muscles of your thighs is a pleasant ache. Then, you prop yourself on your elbows, the thin blanket bunching around your hips.

"Sounded like something." You press, voice light with teasing. "Sounded an awful lot like three really special little words, Gally." He yanks his bottoms on and stands, keeping his back to you.

"Get your ears checked." He huffs.

A bright giggle escapes you, and before Gally can take another step, you're off the bunk, sticky air hitting your damp skin. You launch yourself at his back, wrapping your arms around his solid torso.

You use your momentum to heave him backward. He lets out a surprised grunt and stumbles, collapsing back onto the thin mattress with you on top of him.

"Where do you think you're going?" You murmur into the space between his shoulder blades, lips brushing his hot skin. You feel the slick warmth of his release trickle out of you, marking your thighs and the sheets beneath you both.

"Away from this conversation." His head turns slightly on the pillow, revealing his familiar, sharp profile. You nuzzle into the back of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

"No, come on." You whine. "Look at me in the eyes and say it again." His body stiffens at the request; every muscle locked with a rigidness that should be painful.

"No."

"Come on. It's just a few words." You grin, shifting your weight to straddle his hips, pinning him to the mattress. You lean down, hair falling around your hair like a curtain, and brush your nose against his. "Don't tell me you're scared."

"You think this is funny?" Gally's intense eyes finally meet yours. He doesn't smile, but his hands come up to grip your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft plush above your hips.

"A little." You admit. "Can't a girl enjoy watching the great and powerful Gally fumble over his own tongue? It's cute." He huffs, gaze dropping down to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

"Why do you have to make everything so complicated?"

"Me? I'm the one making it complicated?" You whisper, rolling your hips against him slowly. He sucks in a sharp breath. "I don't know. This seems pretty straightforward to me."

You feel him shudder with a tremor that runs through the planes of his hard stomach. His fingers dig into your hips, not to pull you closer, but to keep you still.

"Shuck." He grits out, voice strained. "Still sensitive."

"Are you, now?" You lean in, lips finding the rough stubble along his jaw. You pepper fleeting kisses, moving up to the corner of his mouth. "Relax. I'm not doing anything."

Your hands slip past his waistband, and your palm finds the hot, half-hard length of him. He jerks, a sharp inhale of breath hissing through his teeth as you stroke him slowly.

Your thumb brushes over the slick head of his cock at the same moment you suck at the tendon of his neck, tasting salty sweat on his skin.

"Don't." He groans, his head tipping back to give you better access even as he protests. "Don't leave a mark. They'll see."

"You're so uptight." You huff against his skin. You can feel his pulse hammering under your lips. "I just wanna hear it. Say it again. Please?" Your hand moves around him more firmly, setting a deliberately teasing rhythm.

He's trembling, his hips giving tiny, involuntary thrusts into your hand. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face a mask of tortured pleasure. The conflict is written on every inch of his body.

"You're a freak." He rasps.

"Mhmm. You apparently love it though, don't you?" You plant a kiss to his mouth. He whines as you stroke him: A high, desperate sound that vibrates against your lips.

His whole body squirms in a helpless twist of his hips, oversensitive and overwhelmed. He breaks the kiss, panting, his forehead dropping against yours. Your rhythm becomes slower: A torturous drag of your palm that has him biting his own lip to stifle another sound.

He could easily shove you off, his strength is undeniable, but he doesn't. He surrenders to the choice of staying pinned, which only makes you cockier.

A wicked smile spreads across your face as you slip off his lap, your hands finding the waistband of his pants. You tug them down, the fabric catching on his thick cock before giving way.

You lean in, letting your hot breath ghost over his exposed length, watching as it twitches in response. You don't touch him. You hover, just close enough for him to feel the warmth of your exhale.

His head falls back against the pillow with a soft thud, his chest rising and falling in quick breaths. One hand comes up to cover his face, his fingers pressing into his forehead.

"You're a deviant." He mutters, the words muffled by his palm.

"Your deviant." You correct, closing the distance.

Your tongue traces a wet path from base to tip of his throbbing cock. His stomach muscles clench in response. You drag open mouthed kisses along his length before finally taking the head into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, and he bucks, needy for more of your mouth on him.

"Don't tease." He gasps, voice strained and hands fisting in the sheets to cope with the tingling oversensitivity. You pull off him with a wet pop, your lips still hovering a breath away.

"Say the words." You command. Gally's eyes fly open, dark and desperate. He stares at you in disbelief, chest heaving while he weighs his desire.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

"I hate you."

"I'll leave." You pull back slightly. "I'll leave right now. Better yet, I'll never come back. You can go back to jerking off into your own fist, if you'd like."

His teeth grit.

"I love you." He grumbles flatly, almost aggressive. It sounds more like a challenge being thrown down instead of a meaningful expression. "Happy?"

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be like that." You whine. "Say it like you did before." You lean in and peck a fleeting kiss to his tip, feeling him jump. "Put some 'oomf' in it."

"Some 'oomf'?" He begins, the complaints starting up again. His face flushes with a mixture of frustration and unbearable pleasure. "You're the most impossible—"

You roll your eyes, cutting off his tantrum by taking him fully into your mouth, sinking down until your lips meet the base. The effect is immediate.

The air leaves his lungs in an empty groan, his head slamming back against the pillow. His hands fly to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as his hips thrust helplessly.

You work him thoroughly with a devotion that leaves no room for argument: Tongue tracing every vein and ridge until the only words he's capable of are broken, gasped fragments of your name.

You're purposely sloppy, letting drop drip down to coat his balls as you suck him deep, your eyes locked on his face: It's flushed in a deep red you've never seen on him before. Not even after the hardest day of building.

His mouth is slack and his eyes unfocused. You put your hands on his trembling thighs, bobbing your head in a merciless rhythm, feeling him swell and pulse against your tongue.

You can taste him impending release. Just as he tenses, a wrecked cry catching in his throat and his hips lifting off the mattress, you pull off with an obscene sound.

He's left throbbing in the cool air, his entire body tense from your denial. A strangled, frustrated growl escapes him, sounding dangerously close to a sob.

"Oops." You chime, wiping the back of your hand across your wet chin.

"You're evil."

You giggle, crawling up his body until you're straddling him again, pinning his wrists to the mattress beside his head. You lean down and press a soft kiss to his sweaty forehead.

"What did you expect?" You taunt with a playful murmur. "Say the words. Like you actually mean it, this time. Please." Gally stares up at you, his expression turbulent.

He's trapped, in more ways than one, and he knows it. His throat bobs and the fight seems to drain out of him, leaving behind only a weary honesty.

"I love you." He says, differently this time. It's not a mutter lost in passion or a flat grumble. "There. I meant it. Is that good enough for you, your highness?"

The smugness fades from your face, replaced with genuine affection. You release his wrists, your hands moving to cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

"Was that so hard?" You whisper and sink down on him in a slow slide that wrings a moan from your throat. He fills you again, stretching you perfectly.

The oversensitivity from before is gone, leaving only a deep, aching fullness that makes your head spin. Gally's eyes roll back, his palms soaring to your hips and fingers digging in enough to bruise. He doesn't thrust up. He holds you there, buried to the hilt as if savoring the feeling.

"Shuck." He breathes. "You're drenched."

You begin to move, grinding your hips in a roll that has him swallowing back a curse. The only sounds are the wet slide of your bodies and your combined ragged breathing.

His intense gaze is locked on yours, and in it, you see the echo of his words. You ride him with a new purpose: Not just for pleasure, but to chase emotion back to the surface. To make him say it again during days when he can't blame it on the heat of the moment.

"So pretty." You lean in and whisper in his ear.

"Don't say stupid klunk like that." He grits out, his voice breaking on the words as you pick up the pace. Your hips slap against his with a wet cadence.

"But you are so pretty." You insist, your own voice breathless with the effort of your movement. You can't pull your eyes away from his face: The way his eyes squeeze shut, the flush on his cheeks, and the sweat beading on his temples.

He is beautiful.

Unraveling.

A mess for you.

You capture his mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing whatever sounds he can still manage to make. He kisses you back with a frantic hunger, his hands roaming your back, your shoulders, and tangling in your hair.

The call of pleasure burns in your lower belly in an urgent pressure that builds with every thrust. You feel him getting close again too, the rhythm becoming erratic.

"I'm gonna—" He begins, a strained warming, but you shake your head, slowing to a deliciously torturous grind. You feel him throb inside you, so close, it's painful.

"Beg for it."

"Hell no." He groans, his pride waging war with the overwhelming need you've planted in him. You stop moving entirely, clenched tight around him, the denial of friction is its own kind of agony.

"Beg."

A shudder works through him frame. His hands slide along your sides, twitching as they fight to keep from grabbing and bouncing you on his needy cock. It's an exceptional honor to watch Gally squeeze his eyes shut, utterly dismantled.

"Please." He whimpers. "Shuck. I hate you. Just— Please. Let me— Let me cum." A triumphant smile sparks across your face. You lean in until your lips are a breath from his.

"Since you asked so nicely."

Lewd, wet plopping sounds echo in the small hut. You press your hands on his chest for leverage, fingers splayed over the hard muscle, clenching around him as you chase your high.

Just before you reach it, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into a tight embrace, your chests pressed together. His face buries in the curve of your neck, and he thrusts up into you.

It's no longer a contest, but a collaboration: A shared race toward the edge. Guttural sounds are torn from both your throats, and you cling to him, scraping your nails into his shoulder while the pleasure breaks, washing over you in a blinding wave.

You feel him follow, his release pulsing deep inside you, his whole body going taut before collapsing into a boneless heap beneath your own exhaustion.

You remain quiet for a long while, letting him soften inside you while held tight in his arms. This is sanctuary. This is trust. This is a side of Gally only you are lucky enough to see.

Truly, what would he not do for you? What is there which he would not endure? What would he not admit? Nothing, because the simple truth is: He loves you.

Finally, you speak:

"I love you too."

[sephoutlet]

ok so married!newt x wife!reader who are like in their 50’s and have a big family (which their kids are already adults) headcanons pls pls pls!!

"You are my best friend as well as my lover. and I do not know which side of you I enjoy most. I treasure each side, just as I have treasured our life together." —  Nicholas Sparks

Husband!Father!Newt x Wife!Mother!Reader 𑣲 WC: 4,243 A/N: I've never written something in this half headcanon, half fanfic format. I'm not sure iif I like this piece very much purely for the fact that I don't think I wrote it well.

Doesn't know how to act when you first arrive at the Safe Haven

The sun has barely crested the horizon when you find him. He's standing at the shoreline with his hands in his pockets and a far-off look. You walk up quietly and wrap your arms around his waist. He jumps slightly before relaxing into you.

"Sorry." You murmur.

"S'alright." He replies, eyes still fixed on the ocean.

You rest your cheek between his shoulder blades and look out at the water with him. Neither of you speak again. You simply stand there, watching the waves until the sun rises fully over your new home.

Insists on building your hut himself, even though there are Builders who could do it faster.

"Y'know there's people who actually know how to do this, right?" You call up to him. He's perched on the roof, balanced carefully and squinting at a stubborn beam.

"I know how to do this." He mutters, hammering at the wood again until it goes crooked. You hold back a laugh. Somewhere behind you, Minho shouts:

"I don't think it's meant to be angled like that!"

"Sod off!" Newt yells back, not even looking up. The beam slips, and Newt curses loudly. You finally give in, laughter bubbling up from your throat. He looks down at you in mock offense.

"Think this is funny, do you?"

"I think," You grin. "You're too stubborn."

Panics when you have an early pregnancy scare.

"What?" He swallows. You've barely finished the sentence before he's on his feet.

"I'm just late." You repeat. "That's all. It could be nothing." He's already pacing. One hand drags through his hair as he turns across the room again. "Newt, seriously. It's probably nothing."

"What if it's not safe yet?" He blurts, ignoring you. "What if there's still something wrong out there? Bloody hell, what if there's something wrong with me?"

"What are you talking about?" You blink.

"I had the Flare." He lets out a sharp, panicked sound. "I had it. I was infected. I had it. What if it can be passed on or something?" You stare at him.

"What? Newt—"

"No, no. Think about it." He presses on. "We barely understand what that thing did to people. We don't know what it changes. What if it stays in you? What if it's in your blood forever? What if—"

"Newt." You cross the room, catching his forearm before he can turn again. His eyes lift to yours, and the fear there makes your heart squeeze. "They said you were clear." You say softly. "You're not sick. You're not dangerous. Okay?"

"You don't know that." He whispers. "None of us do."

"You're freaking out over something that hasn't happened yet, and probably won't." You rub your hand along his back in repetitive, soothing motions. "All I said is that I'm late. It happens sometimes."

"Okay." He sighs. "Okay."

"Do you just..." You pause, studying him. "Never want kids?"

"No! No, that's not it." He says immediately. "I just..." His voice falters. "I wouldn't want it growing up... Afraid. Like we did. Especially not because of me."

A silence stretches as you absorb the weight of his fear. The weight of what it might mean to build a family after everything you've been through.

Life has almost ended more times than you could ever count. Monsters, Mazes, the Flare, WICKED: It's all brought loss stacked on top of loss.

Yet, standing here now in front of the man who's been here for you through it all, the idea of a family doesn't feel impossible. Scary, maybe, but not impossible.

"You'll be a great Dad, Newt."

"Yeah?" He asks softly, blinking a couple tears away.

"Yeah. Someday." You squeeze his arm. "Not today, but someday." He lets out a breath he's been holding, his shoulders loosening along with the exhale.

"Yeah, well," He mutters, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face before cupping your cheek. "Someday, you'll make a bloody good Mum."

"Mum." You repeat with a grin, exaggerating the accent. He scoffs and pulls you into his arms. You burst into giggles as he squeezes you tight, half hiding his face in your hair.

"You're such a wanker."

Lets the idea stick when the pair of you become the unofficial 'Mum and Dad' of the Safe Haven.

The bonfire is loud tonight. Frypan passes around a roasted fish, someone is playing music, and Minho is arguing with Gally about something that probably stopped mattering ten minutes ago. Like usual, you and Newt are somehow right in the middle of it.

"Oi," Newt starts, nudging Minho with his foot. His arm is lazily draped around your shoulders as you lean against the log beside him. "Leave him alone."

"I'm not doing anything!"

"Yes, you are." You chime.

"Look at you two." Brenda snorts from across the fire, pointing between you and Newt. "Mom and Dad of the island." You groan immediately, dropping your face into your hands.

"She's so right." Minho grins. "You've been together so long. You're basically married."

"What would marriage even mean out here anyway?" Gally adds. "There's no paperwork. No churches. Just a bunch of sand and crabs everywhere."

"You're such a buzzkill." Brenda mutters.

"He's got a point." You shrug. "A wedding out here wouldn't mean anything."

"Then why not do it?" Jorge cuts in casually. A few people laugh.

"Yeah!" Minho points to you and Newt. "Have a little ceremony. Make it official."

"I'm getting fruit." You wave them off immediately, untangling yourself from Newt's arm as you stand. A chorus of playful 'boo's follows you as you walk away from the fire.

"Coward!" Minho shouts after you. You flip him off over your shoulder without turning around, which only earns more laughter from those hooligans.

The little storage shed is quiet compared to the chaos outside. You grab a knife and pull a few pieces of fruit from a basket on the counter. The lantern hanging from the rafters casts a warm, flicking glow over the room as you start slicing.

You can still hear muffled sounds of laughter and shouting drifting through the open window. Someone starts singing, badly, and the entire bonfire erupts into cheering. You shake your head and smile as you cut another slice.

The door creaks open behind you. The uneven rhythm of his footsteps gives him away instantly. Warm arms wrap around your waist, and his chin settles on your shoulder.

Neither of you say anything. The knife moves steadily through the fruit with a satisfying thud every time it lands against the wooden cutting board.

"D'You ever think about it?" He asks quietly.

"About what?"

"Being married."

Your hands pause mid-cut. You set the knife down slowly before turning around to face him, leaning back against the counter. His hands stay on your hips, thumbs brushing lightly against the fabric of your shirt. His expression is softer than usual. More thoughtful.

"It wouldn't change anything." You say.

"Yeah," He leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. When he pulls back, he's looking at you with that same fondness that's always been there. "Maybe that's the point."

Tears up while reciting his vows to you.

It's a quiet afternoon on the beach.

Someone had dragged the bonfire logs into a half circle. Frypan insisted on cooking something special. Brenda braided a few flowers into your hair.

Somehow, the whole Safe Haven showed up.

Jorge stands in front of the gathered crowd with his hands clasped behind his back, looking more official than anyone expected him to. You barely notice him, though.

Your attention is fixed entirely on Newt. He stands in front of you, shifting his weight nervously, holding a wrinkled piece of paper between trembling hands.

"Your turn, amigo." Jorge gestures toward him. He lets out a shaky chuckle, and lifts the paper slightly.

"Well," He begins, glancing at you. "Don't know how I'm supposed to top yours." A few people laugh. "Here goes." He clears his throat, eyes dropping to the paper. "When I first met you, I didn't exactly expect we'd end up here." A faint smile tugs at his mouth. "Back then, we were just tryin' to survive the day. Didn't really have the luxury of thinking about the rest of our lives. Then, somehow, you became the best part of mine." His words slow. "You kept me going when things went bad. When I thought I'd lost all else, I had you, and I know— I know— Bloody hell."

His voice catches. When he looks up again, his eyes are shining with tears. He looks down quickly, blinking hard before rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Hey," You squeeze his hand gently. "It's okay." He lets out a shaky laugh, and nods.

"See?" He says quietly, gesturing toward you with the paper. "That's exactly what I mean." He sniffles once before continuing, his voice steadier now. "I know things out here might never be perfect, but if I get to face it all with you," He folds the paper slightly in his hands. "Then that's more than enough for me." He smiles. "So, yeah. I promise to stay by your side. Through whatever comes next."

Someone hands Jorge the rings: Simple wooden bands carved carefully and polished smooth. Newt slides yours onto your finger with gentle hands. You do the same for him.

"Well, then!" Jorge spreads his hands with a satisfied grin. "I believe that means, you may kiss your wife!" Newt doesn't hesitate. He pulls you forward immediately, kissing you hard enough for the crowd to erupt in cheers and whistles.

To everyone's surprise, including yours, he lifts you off the ground and spins you. You both lose your balance halfway through and collapse into the sand, a laughing pile of tangled limbs.

"Alright! Alright, you animals!" Minho shouts. "Get a room!"

A couple people reach out to help pull you back to your feet. Newt is still laughing when Gally steps forward, holding something behind his back.

"Now's probably a good time to give you this." He says gruffy, and holds it out: It's a cane. Not a piece of driftwood, or a stick he found lying around.

It's solid wood, hand carved and polished with a wrapped grip near the top. Newt goes quiet as he takes it. He turns it over in his hands, testing the weight.

"Wow. Did you make this?" You whisper, leaning in for a better look.

"Yeah." Gally shrugs. "Figured he could use something a little better than the crap you've been walking around with." Newt swallows, nodding once.

"...Thanks, Mate."

Becomes the softest, most devoted girl Dad imaginable

The first child born in the Safe Haven is yours.

A daughter.

"You can hold her, you know." You tell your husband gently. Newt stands beside the bed looking completely petrified, arms hovering awkwardly in the air like he's not quite sure what to do with them.

"Right." He swallows. "I know."

You finally place the tiny bundle in his arms, and he goes still as her weight settles into him. Slowly, carefully, his thumb brushes over the back of her tiny hand. Her fingers curl around it.

He absolutely melts.

The smile that spreads across his face is softer than anything you've seen. The kind that makes his eyes crease at the corners and his shoulders finally relax.

Behind him, the rest of the Safe Haven has fallen into a quiet hush of awe. This is the first new life since everything ended. Of course, Minho ruins it:

"It's kind of gross." He says from the doorway. Newt's head snaps up, shooting him a warning look. Minho continues anyway. "Now everyone knows you two get nasty."

"You are such a child." You sigh.

Newt doesn't even bother responding. His attention has already drifted back to the tiny girl in his arms. His voice drops to a quiet whisper as he studies her face.

"Hi there, Love." His thumb brushes gently over her hand again, and just like that, the rest of the room might as well have not existed. "I'm your Dad."

Painfully overprotective when it comes to your daughters.

Your two girls are racing along the beach one afternoon, shrieking with laughter as waves crash at their feet. Sand flies everywhere as they sprint past the huts. You and Newt are sitting nearby, watching.

Well, you're watching. Newt's monitoring. He won't sit still. Every few seconds, his eyes flick back over to make sure they're still upright and in one piece.

Then, one of them trips. Her foot catches in the sand, and she goes down with a soft 'oof', landing on her hands and knees. Newt is on his feet instantly.

"Newt," You grab his wrist before he can take two steps. "Relax, Honey."

"I told you we shouldn't let them play so close to the water." He nods to your youngest daughter. "We need to take them back to the treeline." He glances back at you, catching the unimpressed expression on your face. "Love, she fell."

"Yes." You tilt your head toward the shore. "She fell. Now, look."

He looks.

The little girl has already pushed herself back up, brushing sand off her knees before sprinting after her sister again like nothing happened. Newt's shoulders drop.

"Right."

"They're tougher than you think." You squeeze his hand.

"Yeah." He mutters, but his eyes still don't leave them for the rest of the afternoon.

Allows your girls get away with everything.

You step into the hut to find your girls cross-legged on the floor, tongues poking out in concentration. The afternoon sun spills through the open doorway, lighting the mess of colored charcoal around them.

Between the two of them lies Newt's cane. The one Gally carved for him years ago. The wood is worn from age, and your daughters are drawing all over it: Little stars, flowers, waves, and a questionable attempt at a bird.

"Newt." You pause in the doorway, trying not to lose your mind over the chaos. He's sitting nearby, leaned back in his chair, watching them with amusement.

"Yes, Love?"

"Newt." You point, your tone sharper this time. Your daughters both glance up momentarily before returning to their artwork. Newt just tilts his head, following your finger.

"Let 'em."

"Newton."

"It makes the gift more special." He says simply. The youngest presents her work to her father proudly. He reaches forward, tapping the cane gently where a crooked tree has been added. "Looks good, that one."

"Newt."

"Yeah?"

"You're cleaning this floor."

Denies that his limp is worsening with age.

Of course you notice.

You notice the way Newt lingers before standing in the morning. The way his hand drifts to the back of a chair when he shifts his weight. The way the familiar, uneven rhythm of his steps has grown a little heavier over the years.

He insists nothing's changed.

"I walk the same as I always have." He says one morning when you mention it. You watch him cross the room, and his bad leg drags slightly before catching up with the rest of him.

"No, you don't." You reply gently, and he scoffs.

"I do."

"You winced when you stood up."

"Did not."

"Yes, you did." You sigh, stepping closer and resting a hand against his arm. "We're getting older. You don't have to pretend it doesn't hurt. You don't have anything to prove."

"I'm not tryin' to prove anything." He glances toward the doorway, where your daughters' laughter drifts from outside. "Just don't want to slow down yet."

Loses his mind when you find out your oldest daughter has been sneaking a boy.

You only woke up in the middle of the night to get some water when you notice the front door isn't fully closed. At first, you think one of the girls forgot.

Then, you hear the whispering, and your heart nearly stops. You move quietly down the hall and push your daughter's door open, catching two silhouettes jump apart immediately.

"Oh—" You whisper. "My God." Your daughter freezes, and the boy standing in the corner looks like he's about ready to pass out. You recognize him instantly.

That's Frypan and Brenda's kid.

You close the door slowly, shock racing through your nerves. When you turn around, Newt is already standing behind you, barefoot, half asleep, and confused.

"What's wrong?"

"There is a boy." You blink. "There is a whole boy in our daughter's room." The words take a moment to register. Then, Newt's entire face twists.

"There's a what?" The door swings open again. Your daughter squeaks, and Newt stands there for a second, taking in the scene. His eyes move from your daughter to the boy, to you, then to the boy again. "You."

"Y-Yes Sir." The boy stutters. Newt grips the doorframe like he needs physical support before he points an accusing finger to your mortified daughter.

"You snuck a boy into our hut?"

"Dad—"

"Not just any boy." Newt continues, turning to you. "That's Fry's boy. Fry's boy! Frypan's boy is in my hut. Right now. With my daughter." The boy raises his hand nervously.

"Hi, Mr. Newt." Newt stares at him, then returns to you.

"I'm going to have a bloody heart attack."

"Okay! Both of you," You say, pointing a finger at the two teenagers. "We are going to have a conversation about this in the morning." You glare at the boy. "Go home."

The boy scrambles out the door, and Newt watches him leave before his eyes return to your daughter. The girl you could've sworn you'd birthed yesterday.

"You," Newt starts. "Are in so much trouble, young lady."

"Yeah." She whispers. "I know."

"I thought we'd raised sensible children." Newt mutters as you lead him out the bedroom. You shoot one last pointed look at your daughter before shutting the door behind you. "I'm not ready for this."

"Honey," You sigh, padding down the hallway, back in the direction of your room. "She's seventeen. Need I remind you of what we were doing at that age?"

He groans,

And is haunted for the rest of the night.

Treats your anniversary like the greatest event of his life no matter how long you've been together.

You wake slowly to the soft warmth of Newt's lips on your cheek. Then, your nose. Then, your forehead. Kisses scatter your face before finally resting on your lips.

"Mmm, Newt." You murmur, eyes half closed, still tangled in sheets.

"G'Morning, Love." He whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You groan, stretching, and roll on your back. "C'mon," He urges, tugging the blanket with playful insistence. "Up."

Dramatically, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, hair tangled in every direction. He takes your hand, leading you through the familiar corridors of your home while you rub the sleep from your eyes.

The kitchen table is a miniature festival of color: Bowls of fresh fruit, golden toast, and the scent of honey and cinnamon. A single flower rests in the small jar beside your plate.

"Oh," You exhale, heart swelling at the sight. "I don't know how you still manage to surprise me every year."

"Perhaps," He smirks. "I'm cleverer than you think."

You scoff and shove him lightly. He catches your arm instead, pulling you close. Then, carefully, mindful of his limp, you're in each other's arms, swaying in a tuneless dance.

Your foreheads touch. You study the lines of his face, the streaks of grey in his stubble, and those same eyes you fell in love with all those years ago, still bright and full of adoration.

"Food's getting cold." You mutter against his lips.

"S'That so?" Newt lens in close, grumbling against your ear with a mischievous grin. "Reckon I see something else I want to eat, right here, in front of me."

Helps your daughter build her own place with her partner when she gets older

The morning sun glints off the half-built hut, warming your skin as you watch Newt crouch on the slanted roof, hammer in hand. He steadies himself with the cane wedged beside him. Frypan's son follows close behind, trying to mirror him, though not quite as steady.

"You've got to keep your balance." Newt mutters, shifting slightly to make room. "Don't wobble, or the whole bloody thing goes sideways— Careful with that foot."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. That's... Fine. Just... Don't drop the beam. Yeah?"

You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Some things never change.

Below them, your daughter rummages through a scattered pile of tools and timber, pushing hair from her damp forehead. You step in, gathering the loose strands and braiding them back.

"Mom," She protests, swatting lightly at your hands. "I can do my own hair."

"I know you can," You murmur, fingers working gently, smoothing the golden strands into place. "But so can I. I am your mother. Let me help." She exhales, but she doesn't stop you. Instead, her shoulders soften in gratitude.

"I just hope Dad's being nice up there." She says, glancing up at the roof. A quiet huff leaves your lips.

"He worries about you, Honey. You'll always be his little girl. Even when you're moving out and building your own life," You pause, a teasing tone slipping into your voice. "With a boy, no less."

"I know. I know," She groans, though there's a smile hiding behind it. "But I'm a grown woman, and you raised me to be smart enough to make my own decisions. I'm ready for this." Your hands still at the end of her braid. "When did you and Dad start living together?"

"We were much younger than you are. Pretty much as soon as we got here," You let out a breath, the memory flickering through you. "But the world was different back then."

"I know." She shifts her weight, gaze drifting over the half-built home. "I just... I hope this works out. I want something that lasts. An 'always' kind of love. Like you and Dad."

"You'll have it." You reach out and squeeze her shoulder. "It won't always be easy. Loving someone never is, but if you choose well, and keep choosing each other, it'll be worth it."

There's a sudden thump overhead, followed by a sharp curse. You both look up at once to see Newt frozen on the roof, gripping a crooked beam, frustration etched all over his face.

"This bloody thing—!"

Well,

At least he's consistent.

Gets antsy when you become empty nesters.

Newt shuffles into the kitchen, barefoot and rubbing his eyes against the morning light filtering through the windows. You're already pouring water into the kettle, the familiar scent of herbs filling the air.

"Tea?" You ask, glancing over your shoulder.

Newt nods, eyes lingering on the empty hallway beyond. The giggles, the sound of footsteps racing from room to room, and the little arguments over trivial things are gone.

"S'Too quiet." He sighs as you set two steaming mugs on the table.

"It's peaceful." You say, sliding into your seat. "We worked hard for this, Newt. The girls are doing their own things, and they're happy. That's what matters."

"Don't you miss them?"

"They're just down the beach, Honey." You say, picking up your mug and blowing against teh hot liquid. "Besides, it's nice to have mornings to ourselves again."

"Just the two of us again, huh?" Newt's lips twitch into a familiar, mischievous grin. "Reckon there's plenty for a bloke to appreciate about that."

"Alright, Mister." You laugh, setting your mug down. "Good to know you still find me attractive after all this time." He chuckles, but his grin softens.

"Always." He says quietly, eyes locking on yours with the same warmth you've cherished your whole life. "You'll always be the most gorgeous thing in the world to me, Love.

Is the proudest grandfather in the universe when your first grandchild arrives.

You stand at the edge of the bed, your hand resting lightly on your daughter's shoulder. Newt leans on his cane nearby, utterly captivated by the bundle before him.

Frypan's son hovers close, rigid with pride and nervous anticipation, while Frypan and Brenda linger near the adjacent wall, faces glowing with awe.

"You've done well." You kneel beside your daughter, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. "Do you need anything?" Her eyelids flutter in exhaustion, but she manages a grateful smile.

"Hey," Brenda steps closer. "I'll stay with her. Go meet our grandson." You nod, planting a final kiss on your daughter's forehead before stepping toward the bassinet, beside Newt.

The tiny life breathes softly, chest rising and falling in a fragile lull. Newt's gaze never falters, taking in every little sigh and twitch of tiny fingers. Finally, he tears his eyes away, turning to Frypan's son with a pressed smile.

"You did good, Lad."

You breathe in the tenderness of the room which feels like a culmination of everything: Every hardship, every joy, every promise you've made along the winding path that brought you here.

The Safe Haven, these very walls, all began with a group of children who were filled with uncertainty. Yet, even through fear, there was love to be found: Raw, unshakable love that grew into the foundation of a home.

Your home.

Your love.

Your family.

Your life together.

[sephoutlet]

"To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves." —  Federico Garcia Lorca

NSFW Hanahaki!Newt x Thomas 𑣲 WC: 4,425 A/N: This might be the most shit thing I've ever written. I've never done a non-reader smut before, and it took me two weeks to finish this. Chunk by chunk. Help. Critisize me. Tell me how to be better.

Newt crouches behind the shed, shoulders hunched, coat wrapped tight against the night air. The sand beneath him is soft, whispering across his palms and slipping between his fingers with every shift.

Smoke from the main bonfire drifts lazily across the clearing, carrying warmth and the faint aroma of smoked meat, mingling with the salty scent of the sea.

A lantern sways somewhere against the breeze, casting long shadows over the sand and wooden walls. Everything in the Safe Haven hums with warmth and security.

Newt doesn't feel it.

He presses a hand to his mouth. The cough comes wet, ragged, and tearing through his flesh. Every heave rips at his chest, shooting fire through his ribs, making the whole world tilt in dizzying rotations.

A petal slips from his lips, dark against the moonlit sand. Another follows. Coppery blood coats his tongue, mingling with the tang of the petals, which are the same brilliant color of Thomas' eyes.

He presses his palm tighter over his mouth, frantic to erase the evidence before anyone sees. His other hand scrambles in the sand, brushing petals aside, scattering them like breadcrumbs he prays no one follows.

He swallows again, but the metallic taste lingers, each cough beckoning more petals from the depths of him. Helpless. Humiliating. Every shudder reminds him of the shame he cannot hide.

"Newt!" Thomas' voice calls from across the clearing. "You okay over there? Everyone's waiting." His concern is tangible. "You're joining us tonight, right?"

"M'Fine." Newt swallows again, forcing a brittle laugh that cracks halfway through. "Just a little off tonight." His throat rasps. "Maybe tomorrow."

"That same cough still bothering you?" Thomas steps closer, eyes narrowing in the dim light. "Is it getting worse? Your vitals were fine yesterday."

"They were."

"The tests were good. The inflammation in your lungs was easing up last time we checked. Maybe we missed something? Should we check your temperature?"

"S'Not necessary Tommy."

"Pulse, then? I know you hate the med checks, but it's really no trouble for anyone. We could go right now, and—" Thomas' words cascade in breathless concern, pulling something treacherous from Newt's core.

He hates how easily Thomas undoes him.

He hates the crease between Thomas' brows, and the way his lip bites when he speaks too fast. Newt clings to it more than he should. Thomas is a good friend. The best, really.

Friend. The word is bitter, and Newt swallows it down hard, jaw tightening as he drags his thoughts back into line. Thomas doesn't care for him like that. This is just who Thomas is: Kind. Adorable. Loyal to a fault, but not in the way Newt aches for,

But how wrong is it to want more? To want to brush his thumb along Thomas' cheek? To feel him lean in instead of away? To close the distance and pretend, if even for a moment, that he isn't cursed.

A cough hits without warning.

Newt folds in on himself with a strangled sound, a hand flying to his mouth as his body convulses. The force of it rips through his ribs, hollowing him out from the inside and dragging a burn up his throat.

Thomas is there instantly, one hand firm on Newt's back, rubbing soothing rotations, which only jolt more painful spasms from his sickly friend.

Newt doubles over, choking on it. Each inhale is agonizing, and every exhale shatters another piece of his soul. His sticky fingers curl, coated in slick globs of blood.

He tries to swallow the fluid back down, force it somewhere Thomas can't see, but the taste leaves his stomach turning. A humiliating gag escapes him.

It doesn't stop until his lungs burn empty.

When it finally passes, Newt is left trembling, eyes glassy with unshed tears. He presses his palm hard against his chest, hiding what he can of the crimson substance.

"Reckon I should rest." He croaks, voice barely recognizable. He straightens on his unsteady legs, willing his breathing into obedience as he attempts to slip past Thomas. The effort is futile.

Thomas' hand catches his wrist.

"Is that blood?" Before Newt can wrench free, Thomas turns his hand over, exposing the fresh red smeared across his skin. "Newt, that's blood." His voice fractures with panic.

"It's nothing." Newt tries to yank away, but Thomas' grip tightens.

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long, Newt?"

"...Just a few days."

"Days?" The word breaks out of Thomas, formed in disbelief and fear. "Are you kidding me? That's not 'nothing'."

"I said I'm fine."

"You're coughing up blood."

"I've had worse."

"Yeah, and how'd that go for you?"

Yikes.

"Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything." Thomas fires back, his panic spilling, uncontainable. "We need to— Shuck, we need to get you checked out now. Come on—"

"No."

"Newt—"

"I said I'm fine!" The words snap out of Newt as he tugs his wrist free, stumbling back a step. He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't wanted Thomas looking at him like this again.

A brittle silence stretches between them like a chasm keeping them miles apart. Thomas doesn't move. He just looks at Newt. Somehow, that's worse than shouting.

Newt can see the fear in his dearest friend. The fragment of Thomas that refuses to let him suffer in silence. A merciless guilt peirces his heart.

He's seen this concerned expression before. He remembers the Flare too vividly: The rage which swallowed him whole. Lunging at Thomas. The monster he'd become.

He shudders.

This is different.

The Flare was hatred and uncontrollable fury. Whatever is coursing through his now is of an entirely different nature. It's only rot, shame, and the instinct to hide what he is from the one person he cares for most.

He dares to glance at Thomas' face: It's panicked and tender all at once, and Newt feels the sharp stab of unworthiness. He doesn't deserve this worry. He doesn't deserve this care. Not after everything he's kept from Thomas. Not after letting himself harbor these impossible, impossible feelings,

And yet,

Thomas is here.

He always has been. Sweet, stubborn, and relentless in his friendship. Even when Newt was at his most brutal, at his darkest, Thomas never looked away, and the reality makes Newt's ribs cave into his chest.

With a disgusting lurch, another wet cough escapes from his body, shaking him to his core. His hand flies to his mouth, but he's a second too late. Petals and blood spill out between his fingers and onto the sand. His knees hit the ground as he coughs.

Newt sputters as the cough finally eases and he suctions air back into his lungs. His vision swims, but he forces his eyes up to Thomas: There's confusion on his sharp features.

Thomas' gaze flickers from Newt, to his blood slicked chin, his trembling hands, and down to the petals scattered across the sand. Neither of them speaks.

Newt remembers the first time. He's been just as terrified. How could his body do this? Cough up bushels of petals? It made no scientific sense, and yet, here they were again.

"...Are those... Leaves?" Thomas' voice is hesitant. His eyes are wide, staring at the petals left clinging to Newt's fingers. "They're... massive. What... What kind of tea have you been drinking?"

"...Tea?" Newt echoes, blinking at him.

Tea?

Newt's mind trips over the absurdity: In Thomas' head, Newt has been casually brewing entire branches into drinks and coughing them back up like some sort of botanical abomination.

Newt's laughter bursts through the night air. Thomas' face drops further, disbelief battling with his worry. He opens his mouth to speak, but Newt's unstoppable laughter fills the space.

"Shuck, Newt! This isn't funny!" Thomas recoils, but Newt can't stop the build of hysterical laughter. "You've got to stop drinking whatever that klunk is!"

"They're not leaves!" His laughter breaks the words apart.

His balance trips and he leans into Thomas without thinking. His shoulder knocks into Thomas' chest as another helpless laugh escapes, dissolving into soft, hiccupping coughs.

"Newt, be careful—"

"Shhh—"

Newt's laughter fades, leaving only a faint tremor behind. The air settles around them, and Newt lifts his head. Thomas is right there. Closer than he should be.

It would take nothing.

Only a fraction of an inch.

That's all it would take.

Newt thinks of the endless days he spent, hovering at the edge of death: How close he was to not being here. How every step back to health had been accompanied by Thomas' unwavering presence.

He's sick again. This time, it could take him. He could waste away in piles of blood and petal with Thomas inevitably by his side. A reckless thought takes hold:

If he is always going to be one breath away from losing everything,

Then he's done waiting.

Done pretending.

He closes the distance.

Thomas jolts, eyes wide and breath catching as Newt's wet lips brush his. Newt pulls back almost instantly. Tears he didn't even know where there streak his cheeks, a messy testament to his relief and panic. Thomas' hands tremble as they rise, brushing the tears away before cupping Newt's face.

"You taste like blood." Thomas whispers against his lips. Newt scoffs, trying to mask the quiver in his voice. He pushes at Thomas' shoulders, trying to carve out distance.

"Thanks a lot, you twat—"

Thomas doesn't relent. His hands slip to Newt's wrists, drawing him closer and closing the gap again. This time, Newt is the one frozen in shock.

Their lips meet again. Mutual, desperate, and soft all at once. Everything they've been holding back melts. Newt leans in, and the crushing weight on his lungs eases, replaced by something that feels like home.

His hands instinctively roam to Thomas' waist, tongue exploring with desperate curiosity. Only when they're both thoroughly desperate for air do they pull apart, panting, flushed, and hearts hammering in tandem.

"I don't mind it." Thomas low voice finally breaks the intimate silence. "The blood. I think I'd take anything for your lips if it meant having you this close."

Newt lets out a shaky breath which descends into a sob. Without thinking, he leans forward again, pressing him mouth to Thomas' in equal parts worship and desperation.

The scenery around them seemed to dissolve: The sounds of the distant bonfire and the scent of warm earth hold no fraction of their attention. There's only the heat of their bodies pressed together.

Newt steps closer into Thomas, nearly sending him tumbling back into the shed wall, the wood acting as a rough contrast to Newt's smooth skin.

Newt lets his hands wander, tracing the ridges of Thomas' shoulders and feeling the rise of his chest beneath fabric. Thomas hums eagerly, and the vibration thrums through Newt's bones.

Thomas' hands slide beneath the edges of Newt's coat, fingertips grazing the hot skin over touched starved muscle. Newt attempts to pull back, eyes wide from the electrifying shock of Thomas' touch. Yet, Thomas is relentless, lips following insistently.

"Tommy—"

"Don't stop." Thomas whispers with a firm tenderness that dresses each syllable as a passionate confession. "I've been waiting for that since the day we met."

Finally hearing that, the fear, shame, and solitude melt away. Confidence blooms in Newt, revealing pathways he never realized were available to him. He leans in again, a hand curling around Thomas' neck, fingertips brushing along a pulse.

Thomas tugs at his coat, urging him impossibly closer in playfully impatient jerks. Newt groans into the kiss, half laughing at the wonderful intensity. He pulls back enough to absorb Thomas' face: The tremble of his lips and the fiery flush rising to his cheeks.

"Come on." Newt breathes, shaking his head in disbelief while grinning through the tension. He grabs Thomas' hands, tugging him firmly in the direction of his hut.

The door swings shut behind them. Before Thomas can recover his balance, Newt presses him against the wall, capturing his lips in another hungry kiss.

Teeth clack together as Thomas' clumsy, trembling hands fumble beneath Newt's coat and over the firm muscle of his chest. He pushes with enough intention for Newt to stumble backward, legs hitting the edge of the narrow cot.

He lets himself fall back onto the thin mattress, pulling Thomas down with him. The cot groans under the combined weight, the sound muffled by the rustle of fabric and the quickening rhythm of breathing.

Thomas straddles Newt's hips, fingers finding the metal tab of his coat's zipper. He tugs it down, revealing the wrinkled grey shirt beneath. Newt's hands fly to Thomas' waist, thumbs pressing into the dip just above the hip bones.

The blonde reverses their positions in one fluid movement which leaves Thomas on his back, looking up at him. Newt braces himself above, one forearm planted beside Thomas' head.

He leans down, his mouth finding Thomas' in a deep, slow kiss. His tongue traces the seam of his lips, and Thomas opens for him willingly. One of Newt's knees presses between his thighs, and Thomas arches into the contact.

Thomas' hand wanders shamelessly down Newt's chest, the planes of his stomach, lower and lower until his fingers grab at the waistband of his pants. Newt inhales sharply, hips pressing forward.

Newt's mouth leaves Thomas', trailing wet open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and down the column of his throat. Teeth scrape over the sensitive skin, and Thomas gasps, head falling back against the pillow.

"Newt." Thomas whines, breathing ragged while Newt's hands move to the hem of Thomas' shirt, tugging it upward. The cool air hits his skin, raising goosebumps. Fortunately, Newt's body returns over his within a moment, warmth chasing away the chill.

Newt's mouth find's Thomas' collarbones, tongue licking and sucking gently. Thomas arches off the bed, fingers tangling in sweaty golden strands of hair.

Newt looks up through his lashes, eyes dark with desire. One of his hands slides down Thomas' side, over his hip, then between his thighs, palming him through his pants. Thomas jerks, bucking in a maddening need for more pressure.

"Easy." Newt shifts, kneeling between Thomas' legs. His hands drift to his belt buckle. The leather slide free with a soft sound. "Any time, just say the word, and I'll stop."

"Don't." Thomas pulls him down for another breathless kiss, and Newt goes willingly, the hard line of his arousal pressing at Thomas' hip through the layers of fabric.

He groans into Thomas' mouth, hands sliding under him, gripping at his shoulders and holding him still as the kiss deepens. When they finally break apart, their lips are swollen and wet. Newt shifts, his hands moving to Thomas' hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of Thomas' pants and underwear.

"Lift." He says, voice rough, and Thomas obeys. Newt tugs down the pants and boxers in one efficient motion, tossing them to disappear beside the cot.

Cool air hits Thomas' exposed skin, and Newt's hands travel to his thighs, spreading them wider. His gaze drops to Thomas' fully hard, flushed, leaking length twitching against his stomach.

A cocky smile finds his lips as he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Thomas' thigh. His stubble scrapes the skin, making Thomas shiver.

The sloppy kisses trace higher. Thomas' fingers curl in Newt's hair as his mouth closes over Thomas' spasming cock. Thomas arches off the cot with a choked gasp, one hand flying to his own mouth, biting on his knuckles to stifle the sound.

Newt hums around him, the vibration shooting straight to Thomas' core. His hands slide under his thighs, lifting his hips and adjusting the angle.

He takes him deeper, tongue working in slow, deliberate strokes. Thomas' grip on his hair tightens, but Newt doesn't mind. If anything, he presses closer, nose brushing Thomas' stomach.

One hand leaves Thomas thigh. The rustle of fabric and the sound of Newt's zipper being yanked down bounce against the walls of the hut alongside Thomas' groans.

Thomas' hand leaves Newt's hair, sliding down to find his shoulder. Then, his arm. He fumbles for his hand, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

Newt pulls back, breathing heavily with thick, swollen lips, catching the desperation in Thomas' eyes. He shifts, finally shoving his own pants and underwear down to his hips, just enough to free himself.

Thomas pants, watching as Newt leans in between his legs. He spits, a warm wetness landing directly against Thomas' hole. He holds at the sudden sensation, but Newt's hands tighten, holding him still.

He lowers his head, tongue tracing a slow, wet path along the sensitive skin of Thomas' balls, leaving him shuddering. Then, finally, he presses his mouth to Thomas' entrace, tongue flat and firm.

Thomas' hips twitch, but Newt's grip is like iron. He words Thomas open with deliberate strokes of his tongue, sending sparks along Thomas' spine.

Newt pulls back just enough to spit again, the sound obscene in the quiet of the hut. The added slickness lets his tongue push deeper as Thomas cries out.

"Newt—!" Thomas' hand flies out, gripping the rongue blanket beneath him until his knuckles turn white. Newt hums against him, relentless tongue fucking into Thomas with a rhythm that has his toes curling.

A bead of precum smears against Thomas' stomach as his cock twitches uncontrollably. His fingers grasp at Newt's where they hold his hips while he mumbles curses and half formed pleas.

Newt's permission seeking eyes look up at Thomas, spit slick index finger prodding at his hole. Thomas nods, a frantic jerk of his head while his breath locks in his throat.

Newt pushes in, just the tip of his finger, and Thomas gasps, his body tightening around the intrusion. Newt watches Thomas' face closely, his own expression an intense show of concentration. When Thomas doesn't tense further, Newt pushes deeper, finger sliding into the first knuckle, then all the way to the base.

"Okay?" Newt murmurs.

"More than."

Newt begins to move in shallow movements. He curls his finger, and Thomas lets out a grunt as he brushes against something deep inside that sends a jolt of pleasure straight through him.

Newt feels the desire screaming through his to take Thomas: To bury himself in the tight heat he's carefully opening, but he reminds himself to have patience.

He works his fingers in slowly, scissoring them gently, stretching Thomas with worshipful care. He crawls up Thomas' body, capturing his mouth in a deep, wet kiss. Thomas can taste himself on Newt's tongue. Newt's fingers curl again, and Thomas moans into his mouth, hips lifting off the mattress to meet the thrust of his hand.

"You're doing so good, Tommy." Newt murmurs against his lips. "So good for me." He adds a third finger, and Thomas gasps in response, clutching at his shoulders. Newt stills, giving him a moment to adjust, forehead pressed against Thomas'. "Breathe." He whispers. "Just breathe through it."

Thomas obeys.

Of course, he obeys.

The burn of the stretch gradually subsides, replaced by a deep, aching fullness. Newt begins moving his fingers again in a steady curve that leaves Thomas trembling.

It's overwhelming.

Thomas attempts to reach for Newt's hands, desperate to pull him closer, to get more of him, but he catches Thomas' wrists easily, pinning them above his head. There's the soft scrape of leather on wood as Newt reaches for the belt he'd discarded earlier.

"Newt, c'mon—" Thomas starts, but Newt shushes him gently, his breath warm against Thomas' ear.

"Trust me, Tommy." He murmurs, voice low and soothing.

He does.

Thomas' body goes slack as Newt wraps the leather belt around both of his wrists, sinching it just enough that Thomas can't easily pull free. He loops the end around one of the wooden slants of the cot's headboard, securing the restraint in place.

Newt sits back on his heels, eyes roaming over Thomas' bound form reverently, as if the mere sight is enough to knock his soul from his body.

Newt's fingers brush over the length of Thomas cock, a feather light touch which leaves Thomas jerking against the bindings. He lets out a groan, the sound torn from deep within his chest.

"Don't tease me."

Newt swallows away a witty remark before changing position. He kneels between Thomas' spread thighs, his own arousal pressing hot against his inner thigh.

He reaches for the small glass jar of salve on the crate beside the bed: The kind used for sunburns and scrapes. It's not ideal, but it's all they have.

He slicks himself with a generous amount, the cool gel making him hiss quietly. Then, he leans over Thomas, the blunt wet head of his cock pressing right where his fingers had been. He doesn't push in. Not yet. Instead, his hand cups Thomas' face, thumb stroking his cheek.

"Look at me." Newt speaks, and Thomas obeys: His pupils blown and eyes wet with needy tears. "I've got you." He whispers, and finally pushes forward.

"Shuck— Newt—" Thomas lets out a sharp cry as Newt enters, the sound tearing through the hut. Newt shushes him sweetly, mouth close to his ear.

"Shh. I've got you." Newt's voice is a strained rasp as he inches in painfully slowly. Every fraction deeper makes Thomas gasp, his bound hands twisting in the leather belt. "Breathe, Tommy." His lips brush Thomas' temple. "Just breathe. You're taking me so well."

His own breathing is ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He's fully pressed inside, his hips flush against Thomas'. He doesn't move. He stays there, letting Thomas adjust to the side of him.

Tears leak from the corners of Thomas' eyes from the intensity of the connection and the vulnerability of being bound and opened like this for him.

Newt kisses the ears away with an adoration unmatched by even the greatest of poets. Thomas shifts his hips experimentally, and a jolt of pleasure makes him gasp.

"Move." Thomas' voice cracks. "Please."

Newt's control shatters.

He pulls back almost entirely, then thrusts back in with a deep roll of his hips. His forehead drops to Thomas shoulder as he sets the pace. The cot creaks in protest.

Thomas strains against the bindings, wrists twisting in the leather, desperate to touch Newt, to pull him in and feel his hot skin under his palms. Newt feels the movement and grins into Thomas' shoulder.

"Want your hands on me that badly, Tommy?" He taunts with a cocky whisper. He picks up the pace, his truths becoming harder and deeper, driving Thomas ip the thin mattress with each motion.

The pleasure is a hot coil in his gut, winding tighter with every snap of his hips. Thomas shoves his face further against his neck, muffling his moans in the warm skin and breathing in Newt's scent.

"More."

"Greedy." Newt groans, one of his hands sliding from Thomas' hip to between his legs, fingers wrapping around the neglected length. "Incredible." He praises. "Taking me so well."

The world narrows to the feel of Thomas around his cock, the rough fabric of the cot, and the smell of sweat and sex. Thomas' hips buck, meeting Newt's thrusts erratically, chasing friction.

So close.

So close,

But suddenly, there's a solid knock on the door.

"Newt? You in there?" Frypan's voice is muffled through the wood. "Thomas said he was gonna go looking for you, but he hasn't come back yet."

Newt doesn't stop.

He can't.

He continues moving, slow and deep with a deliberate roll of his hips that makes Thomas' length twitch violently against his stomach. Thomas squeezes his eyes shut.

"Wait— Newt— I can't—" He whines. Newt's hand comes up, clamping over Thomas' mouth, silencing him. His other arm braces beside Thomas' head, his body a shield.

"Keep quiet." Newt huffs in Thomas ear before clearing his throat. "Yeah. I'm in here." He calls back, his voice steady and surprisingly clear. "Just resting. Long day." Frypan hesitates on the other side of the door.

"Have you seen Thomas?"

"Not since dinner." Newt lies smoothly, his hips giving another grinding thrust. Thomas squirms beneath him, a helpless, muffles sound escaping against his palm. Newt's fingers press a little tighter. "Perhaps try the West supply shed."

"Right. Okay. Get some rest then, man." Frypan's footsteps retreat, shuffling through the sandy path outside. Only when the sounds fade completely does Newt remove his hand from Thomas' mouth.

Thomas gasps for air, chest heaving, and Newt looks down at him with a fierce expression, pupils wide with adrenaline and lust. He begins to thrust frantically again, the close encounter stripping away the last shreds of his restraint.

Tears stream down Thomas' face from the sheer effort of holding back, the pressure coiling. He arches against Newt, and a silent plea for release.

Newt sees it: The tears and tension on Thomas' body. His rhythm falters for a second as he drinks the sight of Thomas coming apart beneath him. Then, his hand wraps around Thomas' cock, his rough strokes perfectly timed with his thrusts.

"Cum for me, Tommy." He groans, voice raw with his own impending climax. It's all the permission Thomas needs, and an overwhelming orgasm crashes through him.

His body seizes, back bowing off the cot as he spills over Newt's fist and his own stomach in pulsing waves. The sensation is Newt's undoing.

With a choked groan, he curies himself deep and stills, his release pumping hot inside Thomas, white noise filling his ears as his vision goes spotty.

Newt collapses forward, his face buried in the crook of Thomas' neck. They lie there, tangles and spent, the only sounds being ragged breathing and the distant crash of waves.

Carefully, lethargically, Newt reaches up and undoes the belt bindings from Thomas' wrists. he rubs the red marks left behind, a silent apology.

He presses a soft kiss to Thomas' bare shoulder, breathing him in, and letting the warmth of his closeness settle into his soul. For the first time since he arrived at the Safe Haven, there's no aching weight in his chest.

Only peace.

Tomorrow, Thomas will demand explanations, but tonight, there's only the simple miracle of his presence: Of holding someone he loves, and who loves him in return. He traces lazy patterns on Thomas' arm, letting his heartbeat slow synchronously with the comforting pattern of Thomas' breath.

In facing death so many times, Newt has learned at last what it means to truly live: Not running, not hiding, but relishing in the miraculous bravery and warmth of being held.

[sephoutlet]

Holy shit i love your writing 🥹🥹this is like discovering shakespeare!! I absolutely loved both of your Thomas x reader x Newt works!!

Inbox Message: 4/9/2026 Reply: 4/10/2026

Thank you so much! I'm kicking and giggling :P My Newt x Reader x Thomas works are probably some of the nastiest smut pieces I've ever written, aside from a couple of my Stranger Things posts.

I'd totally love to work with those two more in the future! Feel free to send me requests <3 I'm pretty backed up on requests right now, admittedly, but I'm slowly trudging through them.

Thank you again! I can't wait to put out more for y'all!

XOXO, Yasmine

[sephoutlet]

I just want to say I absolutely love your writing, it’s so refreshing reading fics that don’t just rush to get to the ‘good stuff’ the attention to detail is amazing and the fact that you write the characters so accurately to what they’re like in the movies makes it even better!!!

Inbox Message: 2/26/2026 Reply: 4/10/2026

Awee thank you so much!

I wish I knew which fic you're referring to here! I definitely try to give proper attention to everything I can in my writing. I'm assuming 'good stuff' refers to smut.

I have a really hard time jumping right into smut in my writing. I have so much admiration for writers who are able to drop super juicy pieces without relationship building.

I think the only times I was really able to do that were mostly with my threesome fics, which take forever for me to find the mood for. Anyways, I'm rambling.

Thank you so much for the praise! I'm endlessly grateful for every reader. Love you all!

XOXO, Yasmine

[sephoutlet]

Wanna be my valentine and we can go to mcdods and i can buy u flowers and wand and

Inbox Message: 2/14/2026 Reply: 4/10/2026

Bambi I'm so so sorry this is agonizingly late. I literally forgot people talk to me through the inbox thing. My DM's are always open to you, by the way <3

Crazy story, I've never been given flowers in a romantic setting. I think my Dad got me a bouquet at my high school graduation, but otherwise, nothing.

Thank you for the Valentine wishes. I'm so late with a reply, but Happy Valentines Day to you!

XOXO, Yasmine