#death cure

[urmom-richietozier1]

[luvzxr]

Tell Me We Weren’t Just Friends

3 - 13 - 2026

Hi! This would be my first smut so please BE NICE I beg. I'm more of a fluff type of person but I wanted to push myself outside of my comfort zone a little and experiment.

Summery: Newt and you have been really good friends. At least that's what you liked to believe to suppress the rising feeling of knowing it was much more than that.

cw: smut! 18+ mdni!, best friends to lovers, jealousy, sort of dry humping? eating someone out ( f receiving) f!reader. Talks of death and losing people, cursing.

Word Count: 13, 404

“And what the hell we’re we? Tell me we weren’t just friends This doesn’t make much sense, no”

You and Newt had always had a complicated friendship, one in which most weren’t convinced was just a friendship.

It wasn’t because of anything obvious, well– maybe to some it was pretty obvious. As long as that someone wasn’t you. There were no declarations, no reckless moments you could point to and say that crossed the line. It was quieter than that. More insidious. The kind of thing that lived in the spaces between words, in the way he always seemed to drift over beside you without ever asking.

You told yourself it was familiarity; He was your best friend after all. Survival had a way of binding people together so you figured that’s all it was. But that explanation started to feel thin the longer you noticed how differently he treated you compared to everyone else.

And how differently you felt toward him compared to everyone else.

Newt was easy with people, he had to be considering his job back in the glade was second in command– he had to be easy with people because he was one of the first faces people saw. He was understand, comforting. He was stern when he needed to be and a friend to everyone. 

He kept everyone together. Kept their heads straight even when hypothetically they were spinning.

But he was different with you.

He lingered longer when he talked to you, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. His attention never felt divided; when you spoke, he listened—really listened. He remembered the little things. The real things. The things that mattered when no one else seemed to notice.

He knew when you fell quiet that something was wrong. When your leg bounced and your thoughts drifted too far away, he knew exactly how to reel you back in. His hand would settle at the top of your knee, thumb moving in slow, steady circles until the motion stilled and your breathing evened out and then when you finally would look at him you’d just see him sitting there with that small, calming smile just staring back at you.

He knew you liked watching the sun set at the end of the day—when everything finally slowed, when the noise faded and the world softened. He’d find excuses to be there with you, standing just close enough, saying little, letting the colors fill the silence. You liked having something beautiful to focus on and he knew that.

Newt knew you like the back of his hand and you reciprocated it because you knew him the same way.

Sometimes, during the days after you came back from mapping out the maze with Minho, you’d catch a glimpse of Newt staring at you from across the Glade. The way his chocolate-colored eyes followed your figure like they were glued to you and nothing else.

You’d take notice, shifting your attention to him before giving a soft smile and a small wave in his direction—just enough to show you’d seen him.

His heart would drop.

Mainly because he’d been caught staring from so far away, because subtlety had never quite been his strong suit when it came to you. He’d look away too quickly after waving back, jaw tightening, pretending he’d been focused on something else entirely. As if the whole Glade hadn’t narrowed down to you the moment you stepped into view.

You teased him about it every chance you got too.

You kept telling yourself it was friendly banter. Friends had their fake, flirtatious moments all the time—especially when trapped in one place for so long. It was harmless. Normal.

But everyone else saw straight through both of you.

The way your eyes lingered on each other just a second too long. The way your hands or shoulders would brush against each other, intentionally by one or the other.The way the proximity you two held had long crossed the line of friends.

It was so undeniably obvious to everyone but you.

But maybe it was because you were scared.

Maybe it was because you were scared of what that change would truly mean. Because acknowledging it would force you to face something fragile in a place where nothing was meant to survive. It was easier to deny it, easier to pretend—because something this good, this real, didn’t last in the kind of world you were trapped in.

You don’t get to fall in love without consequences.

Not when the ground was scorched beneath your feet and every day felt like another test you weren’t prepared for. Not when your lives were reduced to survival and strategy, to loss and blood and the constant hum of fear just beneath your skin. The constant feeling of your hair standing up on the back of your neck because you could feel people breathing down it every damn second.

People died.

They suffered.

And you were forced to keep moving—keep drifting—carrying whatever sanity you had left like it was something borrowed.

Letting yourself fall for Newt meant risking more than just a broken heart. It meant risking him. The thought of losing him—not to distance, not to time, but to this world—made your chest tighten in a way you refused to imagine any further.

So you clung to the safety of what you already knew.

Friends.

Because friends were easier than more. Friends was a label that meant you could care deeply without letting your heart take hold too much.

But the jealousy behind unidentified feelings made it quite obvious.

After being held at gunpoint by who you later learned was Group B—Aris’ group from his maze—and then being brought to The Right Arm, everything felt too good to be true. Tense. Like the ground beneath you had shifted again before you’d even found steady footing.

New people meant new dynamics. New faces. New variables.

That was when you noticed Sonya.

She was sharp where you were quiet. Confident in a way that felt natural, like she’d learned how to survive by standing her ground and considering the position she held within this place, you could understand why. You watched her integrate quickly, watched how easily she spoke to Newt—how naturally he listened.

At first, you told yourself it didn’t bother you.

Newt could hang around anyone he wanted, it wasn’t up to you to make that choice for him. He wasn’t yours, after all. 

But then you caught them talking. Really talking.

Newt stood a little closer than necessary, body angled toward her the same way it always angled toward you. His expression was open, attentive—his brow furrowed slightly as she spoke. You watched the way his lips turned upwards into a small smile which led to a faint chuckle that you somehow could hear from afar.

You sat upright on a rock at the edge of camp, hands clasped tightly together between your thighs, knuckles whitening with the pressure. Your posture was rigid, like if you shifted even an inch you’d lose focus. Your eyes never left them—not for a second.

You were staring and not subtly.

Your gaze tracked every shared glance, every small laugh, every inch of space Newt didn’t bother putting between himself and her. It felt like something sharp lodged itself in your chest, twisting the knife deeper the longer you watched. If looks could wound, they’d both be laid out on the ground by now—your stare alone lethal with everything you refused to say out loud. Everything your heart refused to express because of fear.

Your jaw clenched as Sonya leaned in, placing her hand over his arm while saying something you couldn’t hear. Newt smiled in response, that familiar soft curve of his lips that you knew far too well. The sight of it made your stomach churn.

You hated that it bothered you this much. Hated that your pulse spiked every time he turned toward her. Hated that you knew exactly how he looked when he was genuinely engaged—and that he was looking at her that way now. Hatred was so strong, such an extensive emotion that you hardly ever dared to be exposed to– But now? You could feel it rushing through your veins.

Your fingers flexed, nails biting into your palms as you forced yourself to keep still. You told yourself you had no right to feel this way. You hadn’t claimed him. Hadn’t admitted anything. Had barely even allowed yourself to acknowledge whatever it was you two had and you had the audacity to feel jealous? 

How righteous of you. It made you grimace at the idea of feeling this way but having no actions previously to show for it. 

The jealousy burned hot anyway. It was ugly in the way that you could feel it everywhere– your skin felt hot, your mind was boggled in a way where nothing else mattered but finding a way to separate the two. The way the world around you blurred and zoned in on them. The way you felt that pushing her in front of a moving vehicle would ease the emotions you currently were feeling. 

How nice of you.

“Y’know, even though murder is technically legal now, I wouldn’t advise,” Thomas cut in, swinging his body around to sit beside you. He dropped down onto the rock with a quiet thud, forearms resting on his knees like he’d settled in for a conversation he wasn’t planning to rush.

You finally tore your eyes away to look at them, blinking like you’d been pulled out of a trance, “What?”

Thomas tilted his head, nodding toward the center of camp—toward Newt and Sonya, “You’re currently staring at those two over there like murder would be your best option here.”

You scoffed, the sound coming out sharper than you intended, “I am not.”

“Uh-huh,” he wasn’t convinced in the slightest, “Could’ve fooled me.”

You shifted on the rock, uncrossing and recrossing your arms like you couldn’t get comfortable no matter how hard you tried, “I was just dazed. That’s all.”

“Right,” Thomas replied. Thomas glanced over with an eyebrow raised, “Dazed about how you hate how close Sonya is to Newt.”

You followed his gaze despite yourself, immediately wishing you hadn’t. Newt laughed at something Sonya said, head tipping back slightly, and the familiar knot twisted tighter in your chest.

You looked away again, “I don’t hate it,” you said, a little too quickly, “He can talk to whoever he wants.”

Thomas hummed in response, “Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?” His head tilted towards you, a more serious expression had replaced the previously smug one.

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head as you stared down at the ground, “Because there isn’t anything to tell.”

“You’re a terrible Liar,” He replied coolly, shaking his head, “You know exactly how you feel and I think he does too.”

You fell silent.

The idea of Thomas seeing right through everything you tried to guard sent you over the edge. It sent you into a silent spiral inside your own mind, knowing someone outside of it knew a truth that you, yourself couldn’t even admit to yet. 

It was the idea of knowing you thought you was keeping it contained well enough no one noticed– but everyone did. Everyone except you. 

You couldn’t take it, not anymore. Not after feeling almost every emotion since you left WCKD headquarters. Winston dying, memories flooding back to you the farther away you got from WCKD. The idea of knowing no matter where you guys traveled, they’d be right behind you– tracking your every move. 

It all felt too much. 

“Excuse me,” you mutter, standing to your feet before he can say anything else. You couldn’t stand sitting here anymore, your chest felt like a person was sitting directly on your airways.

The words come out quiet, almost apologetic, but you don’t wait for a response. You brush past him, boots crunching against the dirt as you put space between yourself and the conversation, between yourself and the truth that’s pressing too close for comfort.

You don’t have a destination in mind—just distance.

The edge of camp calls to you, the familiar path worn down by pacing feet and restless thoughts. Walking has always helped. It gives your mind something else to focus on besides the tightness in your chest, besides the way your pulse refuses to slow.

You keep your eyes forward, even though you can feel it—that pull, that awareness of being watched. You don’t look back. You can’t.

The further you go, the quieter it gets. The noise of camp fades into the background, replaced by the soft sounds of wind and distant movement. Your shoulders sag just slightly, the tension bleeding out of them as the space around you opens up.

Just as you were about to pass the last tent—right before the trail curved upward into the mountains, your brief ticket to freedom—a sudden force stopped you short.

A hand clamped over your mouth, cutting off the breath you’d just drawn in. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you stiffened, panic flaring instantly, every instinct screaming for you to fight, to scream, to run.

But you couldn’t manage anything.

An arm wrapped around you tightly, pulling you flush against their solid chest. You barely had time to process it before you were dragged sideways, boots scraping against the dirt as whoever had grabbed you hauled you backward into the tent.

The canvas flapped shut behind you, muffling the sounds of camp and plunging the space into dim shadow. Your heart slammed against your ribs, breath caught behind the hand still firmly covering your mouth.

Their hand clasped around your wrist, tugging just hard enough to spin you around and force you to face them. The sudden movement stole your balance for a split second, boots scuffing against the ground as your back brushed the tent pole. At the same time, their other hand lifted from your mouth, finally giving you the chance to gasp, lungs burning as you dragged in a sharp breath from the shock of it all.

The first instinct that came to mind was to punch the damn bastard—which you very nearly did—until your eyes adjusted and recognition hit.

“Newt?!”

Your fist dropped to your side as you sucked in a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You dumb shank,” you hissed, heart still racing inside your chest, “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry, love.” He flashed that crooked grin of his, unapologetic and familiar all at once. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” He paused, “Well,” he thought a moment, voice dipping as he chuckled, “not fully anyway.”

He took a few steps towards you, slightly closing distance.

“Yeah, well—you almost gave me a heart attack,” you grumbled, folding your arms over your chest. You took a step back without thinking, putting space between the two of you like it was suddenly necessary.

The grin slipped, replaced by concern– brows knitting together as his eyes flicked over your face, then down to where you’d retreated. You never stepped away from him like that. Not unless something was wrong. Not unless he done something wrong.

He tried to continue the conversation as normal.

“Well, I noticed you wandering off,” he said, one hand lifting in a lazy, almost casual motion toward the outside,“Figured I’d see where you were off to.”

“A walk,” you replied sharply.

The word came out clipped. You turned away from him before he could read your face, fingers already lifting the fabric of the tent as you made to leave—needing air, space, anything that wasn’t the weight of his attention pressing into you.

But Newt was quicker.

His hand wrapped around your wrist again—softer this time, careful, like he’d learned from the first reaction. Not restraining. Just stopping you. He tugged you back gently, enough to turn you toward him as his other hand reached up to drop the canvas back into place, cutting off the outside world once more.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, voice losing its edge of humor entirely now, “What’s wrong?”

The tent felt smaller again. You stood there with your back pressed to the pole behind you, his fingers lingered warm around your wrist, thumb resting against your pulse like he could feel just how fast your heart was racing.

“Nothing,” You shrugged, trying not to give yourself away, “I just needed some air. That’s all.”

But Newt doesn’t buy it. Not even a little because he knows you. He knows when something is up compared to you genuinely needing some air from the whole crowd of people. The camp was crammed with people so he would have believed it if he was anyone else. But he wasn’t.

So he tested his theory, turning it over in his mind like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

“I’ll come with you then,” he said lightly, like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural solution in the world.

“No.”

The word came out faster than you expected but it was also too late to take it back. You didn’t even have the time to soften the way you said to make it believable. To make it so Newt would stop studying you the way he always did.

Newt’s brows lifted, his head tilting slightly as he studied you. Not offended. Not hurt. Just attentive in that way that meant he was filing the reaction away, already connecting it to everything else he’d noticed.

You rarely said no to him. Not like this, anyway.

The realization sat heavy in the space between you, obvious in the way his expression shifted—subtle, but telling. You felt it immediately, the mistake already made.

“I just—” you started, the words faltering as you tried to backtrack, to soften it, to fix whatever you’d just revealed, “I just wanted some space.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “You’ve said that. Just not why you need it.”

In this exact moment is when panic sets in. He was reading you like a book, one that was plain out– flat open. He knew you were hiding something from him, something that was much larger than the frail excuse you’ve given him more than once now. 

Sometimes it ticked you off how well he knew you—inside and out. How the smallest shift in you never went unnoticed, how he tracked it like it mattered more than it should. A change in your tone. A step back. A look held for half a second too long. He caught it all, filed it away, and circled it until he understood it better than you did.

It irked your soul at this moment.

Because all you wanted was to get out. To escape before the pressure in your chest finally cracked into something you couldn’t take back. And he was standing there, calm and steady and infuriatingly perceptive, blocking your exit like he had every right to.

You exhaled sharply, the frustration finally spilling over, “Why do you even care?” you snapped, lifting your hands in a sharp gesture, “You seem pretty comfortable here, Newt. Plenty of people to talk to. Not just me.”

His brows knit together, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You laughed under your breath, bitter, “It means I don’t get why you’d want to tag along with me. I mean—” You hesitated just long enough to think about your next words. You tried to keep a steady head on your shoulders but you are only human, “You looked busy enough earlier.”

“Busy?” he repeated slowly.

“You know,” you said, eyes flashing up to him now, “With Sonya,” You swallowed.

The realization hit him all at once.

You saw it in the way his eyes widened just slightly before something else took over—something smug, something infuriating. His mouth twitched, then curved into that familiar crooked grin.

“Oh,” Newt said, almost amused, “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” you scoffed immediately, rolling your eyes like the accusation wasn’t ridiculous enough to deserve a real response. You shifted your weight, chin lifting, attitude snapping into place like armor, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Right,” Newt said easily, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, “I seen you staring at us, Love.”

“I wasn’t,” you shot back, the words sharp, clipped—your patience thinning by the second. You looked away from him, jaw tight, like if you didn’t you might say something you couldn’t take back.

“Can you stop denying it?” he sighed, the sound low and frustrated as his arms dropped to his sides. He stepped closer then until his body invaded your space in a way that felt anything but accidental.

You stiffened.

He was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him—that same steady, familiar warmth you’d leaned into a thousand times before. But it just felt different this time. Every detail was suddenly magnified and impossible to ignore anymore.

He towered over you, his head tilted just enough to hold your gaze, casting a natural shadow over top of you. His eyes drifted, tracing the line of your face with a slow, careful curiosity before snapping back to your own eyes, clinging to that edge of respect he always maintained. He looked so effortless. His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic motion, completely at odds with the way your own heart was hammering against your ribs, frantic and loud in the silence between you two.

The air between you felt thick, like it had been replaced by something heavy. You realized then that you were holding your breath, as if any sudden movement might break the fragile stillness and force a truth you weren't ready to speak.

The silence was brittle, vibrating with the things you both hadn't said for years. You looked up at him, your breath hitching as he closed the final inch of distance. The steady rhythm of his chest was right there, a taunt against your own frantic pulse.

“Love,” he spoke just above a whisper. The ring of his accent was thick, the vowels dragging out like he wasn’t in any hurry to let the moment pass. “We were never just friends.”

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, you tried to look away—anywhere but at him, anywhere that didn’t make the truth feel so close it burned.

But Newt refused to let you keep pushing him away.

Newt's hand came up slowly, fingers taking a gentle hold of your chin. It wasn't rough, but it was firm— firm enough to tell you that he wasn’t going to let this slide. He tilted your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze even as your eyes tried to dart away.

“Don’t,” he murmured, voice low, “Keep pretending that’s what this is. That we’re just friends.”

His thumb brushed lightly over your lower lip, a touch so gentle it felt more like reassurance than intent. It lingered just a moment, unhurried, like he was checking you were still there—still with him. The tent felt impossibly small around you both, the fabric pressing in on all sides until there was nowhere left to fall into.

“We’re friends, Newt,” you said, but your voice betrayed you—cracking just slightly under the weight of the nerves twisting tight in your chest.

The words felt rehearsed. Safe. Like something you were desperate to cling to because it was easier than anything else. It was easier than anything else.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, trying to convince both of you that the label still fit. That it still meant what it used to. But even as you said it, the truth pressed back just as hard, making your breath uneven and your pulse jump beneath his lingering touch.

Friends shouldn’t feel like this.

Friends shouldn’t make your hands tremble at the barest touch, or send your heart racing like it was about to give you away entirely. They shouldn’t make your breath catch when they step too close, or make your chest ache just from the way they look at you—like they see every version of you at once.

What you and Newt had was nothing like that.

It was too aware. Too constant. Built on moments that lingered far longer than they should have—on looks held in silence, on touches that never quite felt accidental, on an understanding that went deeper than words ever could. He didn’t just know you; he read you. Not the way friends did, casually and comfortably, but the way someone does when they’re paying attention because they care too much not to.

Friends didn’t notice the exact moment your smile faltered.

And you didn’t look at friends the way you looked at him—like losing him would hollow you out, like his presence alone could calm the  raging storm inside you. You didn’t pull away from friends because it felt dangerous to want them too much. You didn’t deny something this fiercely unless the truth scared you.

"Friends don't look at each other like that," he countered, voice dropping lower. His hand slid down to your hip and squeezed gently—insistent, grounding, "If you can seriously stand here and tell me that, that’s we ever were with confidence– I’ll believe you. But I know what I feel for you is not the same as I feel for anyone else.”

“Newt–”

“Tell me to stop,” he cut you off again, softer this time, like the words were meant only for you. He moved closer, slow and deliberate, until the warmth of his breath brushed your cheek. It lingered there, a gentle sweep of heat that sent a quiet shiver down your spine, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.

He paused—right there. Close enough that you could feel him. Close enough that every breath felt shared and mingled together.

Your heart was pounding now, loud in your ears, each beat louder than the last. You could smell him– The faint musk of the world mingled with the natural scent he always had of cedar wood– they type of scent that drove you crazy in the best ways. 

You swallowed, throat dry, eyes flicking from his lips back to his eyes. He was watching you carefully, not pushing, not rushing—giving you time even as the tension curled tighter between you.

His hand, which had been resting at your hip like a quiet anchor, began to move—slow. His fingers traced a ghost path upward, as if giving you every chance to pull away, until his palm came to rest against your cheek. He cupped your face carefully, thumb brushing along your jaw with a softness that felt intentional, almost reverent.

You couldn’t muster the words. Not the ones he was asking for. They sat heavy in your throat, unspoken—not because you couldn’t say them, but because you didn’t want to. Saying them would mean ending the moment, drawing a line you’d already crossed in every way that mattered.

Deep down, beneath the fear and the excuses and the carefully constructed walls, you knew the truth. You’d known it for a long time. This wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t impulse. It was something steady and aching and frighteningly real—something you’d been carrying quietly, pretending it was lighter than it was.

"You can't tell me to stop, can you?" he murmured. His thumb was moving—slow, deliberate—down the line of your jaw, "Because you want this as much as I do."

Your mouth grew dry, breath catching as your eyes lifted to meet his. His gaze held yours—steady, searching—and you felt it like a pull, something quiet but undeniable. Your pupils widened without you realizing, the world narrowing until it felt like it was just the two of you standing there, suspended in the moment.

You swallowed, the sound far too loud in the silence. Your heart was beating fast now, each thud echoing in your chest as if it were trying to warn you of something you already knew. You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Not when his eyes were on you like that—like he was waiting, not pushing, giving you space even as everything inside you leaned closer.

And in that stillness, with your breath shallow and your thoughts unraveling, it became painfully clear just how much power this moment held over you—how much he did.

When you didn’t answer him, it was when you could feel the movement in the absence of his presence, “Do you want me to stop–?”

“No.”

The sound was quiet, shaky—and that was all he needed.

His hands moved then, both coming up to cup your face with a gentleness that contradicted the urgency thrumming through his veins. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, one tracing the line of your jaw while the other settled just below your chin. He tilted your head up slowly, giving you one last chance to pull away—though neither of you believed you would.

"You have no idea," he murmured again, voice ragged and disleveled, "How long I’ve been waitin’ for you to say that."

There was a pause—heavy and fragile—that felt like the very last thread of control stretching thin. It lingered in the space between your breaths, taut and trembling, as if everything he’d been holding back had gathered right there, waiting. You could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell, in the way his hand stayed perfectly still, like any movement at all might be the thing that snapped it.

But he was only human, he could only hold it in so long before that rope finally snapped and he finally tipped over the edge.

He closed the distance, crashing his lips to yours. 

The kiss started soft—almost tentative—as if he were testing, still looking for permission even now. His lips brushed against yours once, twice, a question and an answer all at once. When you didn’t pull away, he deepened it, one hand sliding into your hair while the other curved around your neck. His tongue swept against your lower lip, a familiar gesture that felt entirely new in this moment, asking for entry that you were more than willing to give.

He made a sound against your mouth—something between a groan and a laugh, like he couldn't quite believe this was real. His grip in your hair tightened just slightly, fingers threading through the strands, holding you there as if you might disappear if he let go. The kiss grew more insistent, his lips pressing harder against yours now–  something desperate and hungry that had been building for far too long.

When he finally pulled back, it was just enough to breathe—barely. His forehead rested against yours, brow pressed to your brow, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide in the dim light of the tent. A few strands of blonde hair fell across his face, slightly disheveled.

You mirrored him—breathing just as unevenly as he was, your own eyes flushed and bright in the dim tent light. The embarrassment of wanting more than just that single kiss, of needing more, made your skin burn hotter. But it dissolved just as quickly when you caught the look in his eyes—raw and desperate and hungry, in a way you'd never seen him before.

He pulled back slowly, his gaze performing a thorough, silent study of your face. He was searching for any sign that he’d misread the room—checking to see if the heat of the moment had just been a temporary feeling. When he found only steady, quiet affirmation in your eyes, he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding in.

He reached down, his fingers sliding against yours until he could softly clasp your hand in his own, his thumb grazing your knuckles as he led you toward the empty cot behind him. He sat on the edge, the metal frame creaking under his weight, and gently guided you to stand between his legs.

He made a move to pull you fully into his lap, but he stopped the moment he felt it—the slight stiffening of your body, the way you caught your bottom lip between your teeth. He froze, his hands lingering at your waist, instantly alert to the shift in frequency. He didn't push. He just looked up at you, his expression soft in the way he always was.

“Trust me?” 

For a moment, there was no response. The silence stretched thin, taut with everything left unsaid. Of course you trusted him; you trusted him with your life, a fact so woven into the fabric of your days it usually went without saying. But you’d never been involved with anyone—certainly not romantically. At least, not in any way that remained in your memory. So, this was considerably a whole new territory.

His thumb rubbed small, gentle circles over the fabric at the hem of your shirt– the feeling sent a shiver up your spine, one that felt electrifyingly good despite the thumping of your heart slamming against your chest.

He was watching you with an intensity that was almost clinical, but softened by an undeniable tenderness to him. He didn't miss the way your breath hitched, or the way the pulse in the hollow of your wrist where his fingers still brushed against began to jump in an erratic, tell-tale rhythm.

The hand that was still holding yours had slowly pulled away, mirroring his other so both palms were flat against your hips, “Your heart is racing, Love. Just try to relax, Yeah?” he whispered, trying to find ways to calm you– the ways that always worked like a charm previously. 

He didn't sound triumphant; he sounded awestruck, as if the physical proof of your reaction was something he had dreamt of but never dared to think would ever become real. 

You were nothing more than a fantasy inside his head all these years, one that helped him with his late night wandering mind even though he could’ve only hoped it would become true.

When you no longer showed hesitation he began to pull you.

He didn't rush. His movements were fluid and intentional, his one hand slid from your waist to the backs of your thigh with a gentle, firm pressure. He pulled you forward, and this time, there was no resistance. You sank onto his lap, the friction of your clothes against his creating a soft, shushing sound that felt incredibly loud in the quiet room.

As you settled, moving to adjust and get comfortable—he did the same. He moved his thighs a little wider, giving you a firm place to sit without feeling like you would fall off. The shift was subconscious, an instinctual move to prioritize your comfort over his own, making sure you felt entirely supported by him.

Once he felt the full weight of you settle, his hands returned to you, but with a new, softer intent. They didn't wander; instead, one hand rested flat against the small of your back, his palm radiating a steady, grounding heat that seemed to seep through your clothes and into your skin. His other hand came up to the familiar curve of your hip, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles over the clothed skin.

He was incredibly still, as if he were afraid that a sudden movement might break the spell of having you so close.

"You okay, love?" he murmured, the endearment slipping out with a natural, unpracticed ease that made your breath hitch.

The way he spoke had always been your favorite soundtrack, but in this silence, every inflection felt magnified in the best ways. It was the specific, crisp architecture of his British accent—the way he’d clip his consonants when he was being playful, or how they would soften and blur into something smooth and honey-thick when he was tired.

But it was the word love that truly undid you.

When it fell from his lips, it wasn't the casual, throwaway term you’d hear from just anyone– or let just anyone call you either. Coming from him, it was a heavy, deliberate thing. He used it as if it were a title he’d bestowed only upon you, like the name itself was only ever carved for you. 

The way the "v" would catch slightly on his bottom lip, turning the word into a soft vibration you could practically feel against your own skin, drove you absolutely mad. It was a low-frequency hum that seemed to settle directly in your bones.

“I’m okay,” you replied, the words finally breaking through the heavy silence.

Your voice was barely a whisper, a shaky, threadbare sound that felt fragile against the backdrop of the Scorch's howling winds outside. But it was positive—vibrating with a quiet, certain heat that told him exactly what he needed to know. The tension that had been holding your shoulders stiff finally evaporated, leaving you soft and pliable in his arms.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He slid his hands slowly upward, the rough callouses of his palms catching against the fabric of your shirt until he could cup your face. His thumbs traced the line of your cheekbones, his touch so light it was almost agonizing. He was being so careful with you, treating you like something precious he’d found in a world that was nothing but pain and sorrow. Ironic. 

He leaned in, and this time there was no hesitation. The kiss began as a ghost of a touch—a soft, exploratory press of his lips against yours that tasted of salt and the dry Scotch air, yet felt like the richest thing you’d ever known. It was slow, a deliberate unraveling of years of restraint. He wasn't rushing to a finish line; he was lingering over the start, learning the curve of your mouth as if he were memorizing you now.

A low, shaky sound vibrated in his throat—halfway between a sigh and a groan—as he tilted his head to deepen the contact. It wasn't forceful, but it was heavy with a sudden, concentrated intent.

His hands, those familiar hands that had helped you over walls and pulled you through sandstorms, began to roam with a new, curious hunger. One hand slid from your cheek, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck to anchor you, while the other began a slow, tactile journey. He traced the line of your shoulder, his palm heavy and warm, before sliding down your side. He seemed to be marveling at the way you felt—the softness of your skin where your shirt had ridden up, the dip of your waist, the solid reality of you beneath his touch.

You found your own hands moving instinctively, seeking the same curiosity. You mapped the hard muscle of his shoulders, the tension he always carried there finally beginning to melt under your fingertips. Your palms slid up his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart through the thick material of his jacket.

He pulled back just a fraction, his lips grazing yours with every word he spoke. His accent was thick and wrecked, the crisp edges of his speech completely frayed by the heat between you.

"We don’t—" he breathed, the words barely surviving the small, charged space left between your mouths. He was trying to be the man he thought he had to be—the one who protected you, even from himself. "We don’t have to do anything more than this if you—"

"Shut up, Newt," you interrupted, the words tumbling out with a sound that was half-whisper, half-breathless laugh.

"Right," he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register that made your skin tingle. "Shutting up, then."

His hands remained beneath the hem of your shirt, but they weren't frantic anymore. They were reverent. His palms, rough and warm, glided over the skin of your back with an agonizingly slow rhythm, as if he were trying to memorize your very bone structure through his fingertips. He was remarkably still, letting you set the pace, his thighs a solid, unmoving foundation beneath you.

"Is this okay, love?" he whispered against your lips, his British lilt soft and breathy. He didn't pull away; he just hovered there, his nose grazing yours, his eyes searching yours in the dim, flickering light.

When you nodded, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the back of his neck, he let out a long, shaky breath that signaled his own surrender. The weight of the world—the Maze, the Scorch, the constant fear—seemed to fall away, replaced entirely by the sensation of you in his arms. He began to move again, his kisses traveling from your mouth to the corner of your jaw, then down to that sensitive hollow behind your ear where he lingered, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

In a haze of mounting warmth, you shifted your weight, trying to bridge the last microscopic gap between your bodies. You moved to adjust your seat on his lap, your hips sliding forward in an instinctive search for more of him. It was a simple, accidental movement, but as you settled, you rubbed firmly against the heavy heat building between his thighs.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Newt let out a sharp, choked-off sound—somewhere between a gasp and a broken moan—against your lips. His entire body went rigid, his muscles corded with a sudden, violent tension as he felt the friction of you through the thin layers of your clothes. It was a physical jolt that seemed to short-circuit his brain, a raw reminder of the biological reality hiding beneath his gentle restraint.

"Bloody hell," he rasped, his accent sounding wrecked from you already.

The sharp, pained quality of his voice caught you off guard. Fearing you’d hurt him—or perhaps that his leg was bothering him from the awkward angle on the cot—you instinctively pulled back. Your hands slid from his hair to his shoulders, creating a few inches of space as you searched his face, your eyes wide with a sudden flash of worry.

"Newt? Did I—did I hurt you?" you whispered, your voice small and frantic. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Newt let out another breath, this one more of a strained, shaky laugh, as he felt the loss of your body heat. He didn't let go of your waist, though; his grip remained firm, his fingers still digging slightly into the fabric of your trousers to keep you from retreating any further.

His eyes grazed up to look at yours, and they weren't filled with pain—not the kind you were thinking of. They were dark, clouded with a heavy, syrupy lust that made your pulse jump for an entirely different reason.

"Hurt me?" he repeated, the words sounding like they were being dragged over gravel. He shook his head slowly, a self-deprecating smirk ghosting over his lips as he saw the genuine concern on your face. "No, love. You didn't hurt me. Quite the opposite, actually."

His accent was thick, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost a growl. He looked down for a split second, then back up at you, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic line across your hip bone to soothe your nerves.

“It felt good,” he admitted, his chest still heaving as he fought to stabilize his breathing. “Trust me. It was anything but hurtful.”

For some reason though, you couldn’t shake the idea that this might be straining him– even if it might be only a little. 

He took notice of this too.

He leaned forward, bridging the gap you’d created but stopping just before his lips touched yours, giving you the choice to close the distance.

“Hey,” he murmured, his breath fanning over your lips, smelling of the stale water they’d shared earlier and the sweet, raw heat of his skin. “Don’t look so worried. Relax, I’m good.” A soft smile replaced the previous smug expression he'd held, his thumb coming up to stroke your cheek to settle the frantic rhythm of your thoughts.

Seeing that smile—the genuine, protective warmth in his eyes—made the last of your hesitation crumble. If he was okay, if this was okay, then the curiosity you’d been shoving down finally began to surface. You didn't pull away this time. Instead, you let your weight sink back into him, your hands sliding from his shoulders to the back of his neck, tangling in the golden strands of his hair.

Emboldened by his reassurance, you took a small, tentative breath and shifted. You didn’t pull back; you leaned in, your hips rolling against his in a deliberate, slow mimicry of the movement that had startled him before.

The result was a low, guttural vibration that started deep in Newt’s chest. His eyes fluttered, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder for support while he simply focused on the movement you made against him.

Finding a spark of confidence in the way he reacted to you, you moved again—this time with a bit more purpose. You were curious about the way his body fit against yours, the way the hard lines of his thighs felt beneath you, the way you could already feel him growing hard against you through his trousers. 

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice a wrecked, breathless warning.

His accent was almost unrecognizable now, worn down to a raw, desperate rasp. He wasn't stopping you; he was leaning into it, his hips hitching upward to meet yours in a slow, rhythmic counter-pressure. His hands moved from your waist to your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to guide you, to show you exactly where he wanted that pressure.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against the pulse point of his neck, which revealed how fast his heart was beating. All because of you. You felt a surge of power—sweet and overwhelming—knowing that you were the one causing this. You moved your hips again, more fluidly now, a soft moan escaping your own throat as the friction sent a surge of heat straight to your core.

“Feel good?” He rasped, picking his heavy head up from your shoulder to look at you again. His eyes were glazed over with nothing more than want, his pupils so blown out they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises.

The question wasn't just a check-in; it was a low, honeyed vibration that you felt in the very center of your chest. You couldn't even find the words to answer, your breath hitching as you simply nodded, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his upper arms.

A slow, satisfied smirk ghosted across his lips—not the smug look of a victor, but the expression of a man who was drunk on the effects you had on him. He leaned back just an inch, his hands sliding from your waist to the very edge of your shirt, his thumbs hooking under the fabric to graze the skin of your hips. He began to move his thumbs in those same small, gentle circles he’d started with, but now they were heavy with the friction of your bodies.

He began to rock his hips against yours again, but this time it was deliberate—a slow, agonizingly rhythmic press that forced a soft, broken whimper from your throat. He caught the sound with his lips, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then down to your jawline, his breath hot and ragged.

His teeth grazed your skin, nipping at the flesh only to soothe the short lived pain with his tongue.

You found yourself melting into his touch, his love—the way his mouth left wonders along your skin. The confidence you'd previously felt completely evaporated the second his mouth connected to your neck, leaving you breathless and clinging to him for support. You were no longer the one in control; you were a mess of shivers and soft sighs, completely at the mercy of his lips and that devastating accent.

He pulled back just an inch, his lips hovering over the reddening skin of your throat. A low, rumbling chuckle started deep in his chest—a sound that was pure, unfiltered cockiness. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hooded, a sharp, playful glint dancing in the heat of his gaze.

"Where's that confidence gone, love?" he murmured, his voice a smooth, honeyed taunt.

The smirk on his face was infuriatingly handsome. He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against yours, mocking the way your breath was coming in short, uneven hitches.

"You were doing so well a moment ago," he teased, his London lilt sounding sharper, more playful now that he knew he had you completely undone.

He shifted his weight, pressing his lower half firmly against yours once more, reminding you exactly what you had started. 

"Cat got your tongue?" he whispered, his teeth softly taking in your lip, “Or did I find a way to make you forget how to act?”

His cockiness was driving you to your brink but would you do something about it? Probably not. You didn’t want it to stop. Not now.

You let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, the sound escaping your throat before you could catch it. Your head fell back, exposing the line of your throat to him, and your body betrayed you completely. You were falling apart under the sheer gravity of his words, your nerves frayed and sparking like downed power lines.

Needing more than just the ghost of his touch and the vibration of his dirty words, you arched into him. Your hips moved again, but it wasn't the curious, tentative exploration from before. It was a rhythmic, demanding grind—a desperate search for more than just friction. You needed the heat, the pressure. You needed him, in any way you could get him.

Newt’s smirk didn't just vanish; it transformed. It turned into a sharp inhale, his jaw snapping shut as he felt the deliberate, heavy roll of your hips against his. But instead of being a breaking point for the boy, it was a moment where his own nerves simply got the best of him now. Where he suddenly grew nervous to the idea. 

His grip on your hips didn’t tighten into a possessive hold; instead, his fingers trembled against your skin. He stayed frozen for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a long, shuddering breath that sounded more like a surrender than a conquest.

"Wait—just, wait a second," he whispered, his voice cracking.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the cockiness from a moment ago was completely gone. In its place was a vulnerability that hit you harder than any of his dirty words could. His eyes were wide, searching yours, and you realized that he was just as nervous as you. His chest was heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own, and his hands trembled in a way he felt he might hurt you doing the bare minimum.

"I want this with you," He started, his accent thickening as he struggled to find the words. He let out a shaky, nervous laugh, his fingers tracing the hem of your shirt with a sudden, shy hesitation. "I want this. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything, but we clearly have no idea what we’re doing."

The admission was a soft confession in the dark. He wasn’t one of the boys who was forced into leadership because people looked to him for advice. He wasn’t second in command around here anymore because there were so many people which meant so many opinions and choices now. Hell, all of you were rookies compared to half this camp. He was just a boy who simply only knew how to survive. 

He didn’t even know about the interaction of girls until he met you and how long did it take for it to go anywhere more than just friends?

He reached up, his hand slightly unsteady as he brushed a stray hair from your face, his palm lingering against your cheek. "I don't want to mess it up," he murmured, his thumb grazing your lower lip. "I don't want to hurt you, or go too fast. I just– fuck, I wanna know you. I want to know your body and what you like because you’re the only thing in my life that matters." 

He leaned in, but instead of a needy kiss, he pressed his lips softly, almost tentatively, to your forehead. It was a gesture of such pure, gentle devotion that it made your heart ache. He stayed there for a heartbeat, his eyes closed, just breathing you in and letting the reality of your closeness settle into his bones.

Slowly, as if he were afraid you’d disappear, he tilted his head. His lips slid from your forehead to your temple, then trailed down the bridge of your nose with feather-light brushes. When he finally reached your mouth, the kiss wasn't a collision—it was a slow, tentative bloom. It was a soft exploration of textures: the heat of his breath, the slight roughness of his lips from being dry due to the air quality, and the way he hummed low in his throat when you tilted your head to let him in.

His hands, still a little shaky, began a slow journey of discovery. He mapped the curve of your jaw, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear before sliding down to rest at the base of your throat. He seemed to be marveling at the way your pulse jumped under his touch, his own heart thudding a nervous, heavy rhythm against your chest.

“Just want to make you feel good,” he whispered against your lips, his British lilt soft and vulnerable.

Encouraged by his honesty, your own hands began to wander, tracing the lean muscle of his back and the sharp line of his shoulder blades. You felt him shiver—not from the chill, but from the sheer intimacy of the contact.

With a slow, deliberate grace, Newt began to shift. He didn't want to break the connection, his lips staying glued to yours even as he moved. He gripped your waist firmly but gently, lifting you just enough to guide you back. You felt the soft, familiar creak of the cot beneath you as he eased you down from his lap.

He followed you down, his body hovering over yours like a shield, his weight a grounding presence that finally let you feel truly safe. He settled between your legs, his knees bracketing your hips, and he looked down at you with a gaze so filled with nervous, holy awe that it felt like he was seeing you for the first time.

He planted his hands on either side of your head, his arms caging you against the fabric in a way that felt both protective and profoundly intimate.

The rough fabric of his jacket was a frustrating barrier, a stubborn reminder that you couldn’t roam over his muscles the way you wanted to. As he caged you there, you could feel the heat radiating from him, but the heavy material muffled the contact, leaving you craving the solid reality of him.

Your hands moved instinctively, your fingers hooking into the lapels of his jacket and giving a slight, insistent push.

He caught the hint immediately. A small, surprised huff of a laugh escaped him, his eyes softening as he realized your impatience matched his own. "You want me to take it off?," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of nerves and burgeoning heat.

All you could do was nod.

He shifted, breaking the cage of his arms to sit back on his heels. He moved to rest upward on his knees, bracketing your hips so he was still towering over you, the movement exposing the lean strength of his frame. In the dim light, his silhouette outlined with the sun peaking through a small hole in the zipped up tent, his movements slightly clumsy as he shrugged the heavy jacket off his shoulders. He tossed it blindly to the floor, where it landed with a soft thud that felt like a final goodbye for now.

The lean, corded muscle of his forearms, the way his shoulders tensed under the thin material of his shirt, and the golden mess of his hair falling forward over his eyes. He was beautiful in every way possible. By caging you like this, he had created a tiny, private universe where the only things that existed were your breath and his.

When he lowered himself back down towards you he just hovered there, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven cycles. From this angle, you could see the way his muscles flexed to keep himself upright. The way his hair fell, hanging close to your face– almost enough to tickle the tip of your nose. 

His eyes were darting across your features, memorizing the way your hair fanned out against the pillow and the way your lips were parted and flushed from his earlier kisses. He looked like he was trying to catch his breath, but the air in the room had become too thick.

Slowly, he lowered himself just an inch more, until his nose brushed against yours. The cage of his arms tightened slightly, his knuckles turning white against the cot as he leaned into the vulnerability of the position. He was completely open to you, his heart hammering so hard against his ribs that you could feel the vibration through the air.

"Let me take care of you, yeah?" he muttered, his accent cracking on the last word. The question was a vow, a soft surrender to the fact that his world now began and ended with you.

He didn't wait for a verbal answer; he could see it in the way your eyes softened and the way your breath hitched. Newt began to move, his body hovering over yours as he started a slow, reverent descent. He started at your jaw, his lips grazing the skin with a tenderness that felt like a prayer. He moved to your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your pulse point, lingering there until he felt the frantic, beautiful drum of your heart beneath his mouth.

Slowly, his hands migrated from your waist to the hem of your shirt. His fingers were still slightly unsteady, his movements cautious as he began to slide the fabric upward. He moved an inch at a time, his eyes fixed on the skin he was uncovering as if he were revealing a masterpiece.

As your shirt bunched up beneath your bra, he lowered his head. He began to pepper soft, worshipping kisses along the curve of your ribs and the flat of your stomach. Each touch was light, almost hesitant, as he learned the way your skin jumped and shivered in response to his lips. He seemed fascinated by you, his nose grazing your skin, breathing you in deeply as if he were trying to pull your very essence into his lungs.

"You're so bloody perfect," he breathed against your midriff, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of heat straight to your core.

He pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the center of your stomach, his golden hair brushing against your skin, before he looked back up at you. His gaze was dark, hazy with a mix of awe and a hunger that was finally starting to outweigh his fear.

His hands moved from your waist, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your trousers. He didn't pull; he just lingered there, his knuckles grazing your hip bones. His gaze never left yours, a silent, nervous question still shimmering in his eyes.

"Can I take these off?" he whispered, his London lilt barely audible over the hammering of his heart.

When you reached down, your fingers brushing over his hands in a silent 'yes,' he let out a shaky, relieved breath. He began to work the button, his movements slow and deliberate. He wasn't being the cocky boy from before; he was being the boy who cherished you, his fingers careful as he eased the fabric down just enough to reveal more of you to the dim lighting of the tent.

He lips your thighs, pulling the rest of the fabric from your legs and throwing it into the beginning pile he started with his jacket on the floor.

He leaned back down, his lips finding the new expanse of skin he’d uncovered. He kissed the curve of your hip, then the other, his mouth warm and lingering. Every touch was a soft ‘thank you,’ a silent acknowledgment of the trust you were placing in him.

His hands slid down from your waist, his palms flat against your skin, guiding your legs to drape over his shoulders as he knelt between them at the edge of the cot. He started with a kiss just above your knee, his lips soft and hesitant, before he began to trail a slow, agonizing path upward along the sensitive inner skin of your thigh.

Your reaction was instantaneous. A sharp, broken gasp caught in the back of your throat. The idea of never knowing what this felt like due to the way you had to live— the way life was in the maze— made your reaction all the more a tad overreactive. 

Newt felt the soft jolt go through you, the way your body hummed like a live wire under his touch. His cock strained against his trousers. The initial nerves that had made his hands shake smoothed out into something else—a steady, intoxicating sense of relief. 

He lifted his head just enough to catch the flush on your cheeks and the way your eyes were lidded already and dazed, looking at him with those eyes that made him melt into himself every damn time. A small, breathless laugh escaped him, his thumb tracing a slow, teasing line along the sensitive skin he’d just kissed.

"You like that, Yeah?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, honeyed tone.

He found it more than just endearing; it was addictive. Knowing that he, the boy who had spent so long just trying to keep his head above water, could pull those broken, beautiful sounds from you was a power he never wanted to give up. He watched your chest softly heave, his gaze tracking the way you bit your lip to try and keep the next sound from being too loud. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispered, a flash of that earlier cockiness returning to his eyes, “I still wanna hear you. I still want to know everything that will make you fall apart.” 

To prove his point, he didn't move away. He leaned back in, his mouth finding that exact same spot on your inner thigh, but this time he was more deliberate. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss there, his tongue tracing a slow circle against your skin before he nipped, ever so gently, at the tender flesh.

“Newt,” the sound you made—a high, needy whimper that broke in the middle—sent a visible shiver down his own spine.

"Atta girl," he rasped against your skin, his breath hot and frantic. "That’s my good girl."

The moment those words—low, gravelly, and heavy with approval—hit your ears, it was like the praise felt more intimate than any touch, a sweet, sharp validation that made your stomach flip and your heart pick up. The way his voice was always the thing that could make your heart stutter. 

A soft, shaky moan hummed in the back of your throat, and you instinctively bucked your hips, pressing yourself closer to his mouth, seeking more of whatever he had to offer. 

"You like that, do you?" he murmured, his lips curving into a small, knowing smirk against your thigh. "Knowing you're being such a good girl for me?"

All you could do was make a soft, broken noise in response to him, a sound that was half-gasp and half-sob, trapped in the back of your throat. The weight of his praise and the heat of his mouth had turned your bones to water; you were a mess of raw nerves and racing pulses, completely held captive by the way he looked at you—like you were something sacred he’d finally been allowed to touch.

Newt noticed the way your breathing had hitched, the way you were looking at him with such hazy, helpless trust. He shifted his hands from under your thighs, ghosting his fingers until they met the soft material of lace around your waist.

He paused there, his thumbs hooking into the soft fabric of your underwear. He didn't pull. Instead, he looked up at you, his golden hair falling over his forehead, his expression a melting pot of that newfound confidence and a lingering, sweet hesitation. 

“Let me take care of you, Yeah?” He whispered, his voice nothing but soft and honeyed down. His head dipping down to press a soft kiss dangerously close to where you needed him the most, “Let me take these off.”

You nodded, a soft whimper of impatience slipping past your kiss swollen lips.

His hands were slow, his knuckles brushing against your skin with a reverence that made you shiver. He watched every inch of skin he uncovered as he slid the fabric down your legs, his eyes so focused, drinking you in like a man starved. He tossed the lace to the side, along with other pieces of fabric discarded already.

He leaned forward, his hands sliding up to cup your waist, his thumbs tracing the line of your hips.

"You're so bloody beautiful," he rasped, his voice sounding wrecked already.

He leaned back in, his mouth finding the sensitive, pale skin of your inner thigh once more. This time, the kiss was deeper, his lips lingering with a proprietary heat that made your breath hitch in a jagged rhythm.

As his mouth moved against you, your hands finally found their way to him. Your fingers slid into the messy, golden silk of his hair, your nails lightly grazing his scalp. The sensation of his hair between your fingers and his warm breath against your skin made the world outside vanish.

He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes dark and blown wide with a mix of hunger and that sweet, nervous devotion. Feeling your fingers tangled in his hair seemed to give him the final boost of confidence he needed. He began to trail his kisses higher, his hands sliding up to cup the backs of your thighs, holding you steady as he worshipped the skin he had just uncovered.

But Newt, despite his nerves, hadn't forgotten the spark of mischief that lived behind his gentle nature. He felt the way your hips stuttered, the way your fingers tightened in his hair, silently begging him to bridge that final, agonizing inch of distance.

He pressed a kiss so light it was almost a ghost of a touch to the very top of your thigh, his breath hitching as he felt you tremble. He moved his mouth a fraction of an inch higher, hovering just over the heat of you, but he didn't make contact. He stayed there, letting his hot, ragged breath fan over you, watching your reaction with a look that was equal parts adoration and pure, playful torture.

"Look at you, so perfect," he whispered against your skin, a tiny, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You let out a frustrated, broken sound, your hips bucking forward in a desperate search for the friction he was withholding. He caught your waist with his hands, his thumbs digging in just enough to hold you still, pinning you to the cot while he stayed agonizingly close, yet so far away.

"Please, Newt," you breathed, your voice cracking with the sheer need of him.

He let out a low, shaky chuckle, his nose brushing against you in a way that made your vision blur. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you over all those lovely noises you're making."

“Newt, fuck just–”

His nose brushed against your clit, allowing a shocked and broken gasp to slip from your lips. The movement was so precise– so intended to happen to politely make you shut up in the best way possible. 

Your head snapping back against the pillow was your hips instinctively bucked against his face, chasing that feeling of contact he’d been teasing with the whole time. 

And you didn’t have to chase far.

His tongue darted out, slowly sliding up your folds while his eyes stayed locked on yours. He didn't look away for a second, even as his mouth worked you up—he wanted to watch the exact moment the pleasure became too much for you to handle.

Your legs perfectly framed his face, your sun tinted skin against the flushed heat of his cheeks. His palms remained firm against your inner thighs, his fingers digging into your plush skin, ensuring you couldn't shy away. 

Newt leaned in, his lips forming a tight seal as he sucked gently on your aching ball of nerves. He let out a low, muffled groan that vibrated deep against your core. He was kneading your thighs in his palms, his thumbs dragging across your skin in a frantic attempt to ground himself while he focused entirely on your pleasure.

Every time his tongue flicked upward in a slow, wet stroke, he glanced up, his eyes dark and dilated, checking to see if you were still with him. He was trying to keep himself quiet, his tongue being used to occasionally catching himself from sounds of his own mounting hunger, terrified that anyone outside might hear the private moment you two were having.

Your breath hitched into a jagged, broken rhythm at the feel of his exploring tongue mapping every sensitive fold. The wet friction was relentless, and as he swirled his tongue in a tight, concentrated circle, your hips jerked against his grasp.

“Oh fuck–” Your words are broken, drenched in a shallowed whimper that only makes his cock twitch painfully against the fabric of his jeans.

Your back arches when he manages to find that sweet spot you never even knew you had. That spot that managed a broken moan slip, where his hand had to free from your thigh to cover your mouth. The spot that made your eyes roll back and completely forget exactly where you are.

Newt couldn’t help but smirk to himself, knowing and realizing he could have had you like this all those years but chickened out– trying to keep the friendship going when he could have had you quivering against him, begging for more. 

He zeroed his focus entirely on that singular, aching spot. He began circling his tongue over it in slow, wet revolutions, allowing himself to finally indulge in the full feast of you. Each flick was more deliberate than the last, his movements growing heavy with a desperation.

With a low, guttural hum, his tongue sank deep into your entrance, his nose bumping rhythmically against your clit with every stroke. The friction was agonizingly perfect—the slick slide of his tongue contrasting with the firm, steady pressure of his face against your sensitive nerves.

You shuddered violently, a muffled, high-pitched whine falling into his palm he’d pressed over your own mouth to stay quiet. Your other hand, still tangled deep in his messy golden locks, tightened into a fist, tugging him closer as if you were trying to pull him right inside you.

“Fuck, you taste perfect,” he muttered against your skin, the words vibrating through your entire lower body. His London accent was wrecked, nearly incoherent as he lost himself in the sight of pleasuring you. “Bloody love your sounds... your taste. Can’t get enough of you, love.”

He let out a sharp, ragged breath and doubled his efforts, his tongue lapping at you with a newfound ferocity. He was no longer just exploring; he was devouring you, his one hand sliding from your thighs to hook firmly under your knees, pulling your leg wider to give him even more room to worship you.

The world outside the room—the sand, WCKD, the constant humming of fear—didn't just fade; it ceased to exist. Your mind was a thick, golden haze, every thought of the past or future incinerated by the sheer, localized heat of where his mouth met your pussy. You couldn't have remembered your own name if he’d asked; the only the you knew was his tongue felt like sheer heaven.

It was a total sensory takeover. Every time he swirled his tongue over that hypersensitive peak, a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity shot up your spine, blurring your vision until all you could see were the fractals of light behind your closed eyelids. You felt heavy, like your limbs were sinking into the mattress, while your core felt impossibly light, coiled tight and vibrating with a tension that was becoming unbearable.

The feeling was cavernous, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded to be filled, and Newt was answering it with a devastating, soulful focus. You were acutely aware of the texture of him—the warmth of his breath, the soft texture of his tongue, the slight graze of his teeth, the firm, grounding pressure of his palms. It all felt so good.

Your breath was no longer under your control; it was a series of jagged, shallow hitches that mirrored the frantic pace he was setting. The pleasure was so thick it felt like you were drowning in it, a weight that made your muscles stutter and twitch. You weren't just feeling him; you were vibrating on his frequency, your entire existence narrowed down to that one, perfect point of contact.

Newt felt the frantic vibration of your thighs and the way your breath was beginning to turn into inaudible, desperate cries. He knew you were seconds away from shattering, and the thought of you losing control because of him sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through him.

He momentarily broke the contact of his mouth, though he stayed hovering inches away, his breath hot and ragged against your soaked skin. He looked up the length of your body, his eyes dark with a focused, commanding heat you’d rarely seen in him.

"Stay quiet for me, Yeah?" he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly warning that made your stomach do a somersault. "Let me try something."

Before you could even process the request, he shifted. His hand that was pressed over your mouth to muffle your moans was removed and began to slide down your body. His fingers softly slid over your folds, earning a low, broken gasp from you which only urged him on. 

He simply wetted his fingers with your seeping arousal, teasing just enough to make you whimper and thrash helplessly– begging for him to touch you again. 

“Eager little thing,” A low chuckle fanning over your heat. 

His featherlight fingertips ghosted over your entrance, eyes so focused on your pretty cunt that he seemed completely dazed– wrecked from just touching and tasting you. His finger slowly inched inside you then. 

The dual sensation was a total system overload. The fullness of his finger inside you, combined with the restriction of your breath, made the haze in your mind thicken into a suffocating, beautiful fog.

Then, he resumed the assault his mouth had done previously.

His tongue went back to its work with a newfound ferocity, lapping at your clit in a fast, rhythmic rhythm while his finger began to gently pump in and out of you. The internal and external friction working in perfect sync was too much; your eyes rolled back, and a muffled, frantic scream died against the flesh of your lip you instantly trapped between your teeth. 

He watched you over the curve of your legs, his gaze locked on your face as you bucked against his hand. He was relentless, his tongue swirling and his finger driving deeper, pinning you to the bed with his weight and his will. A prisoner to the most intense pleasure you had ever endured, your body vibrating like a struck bell as he systematically pushed you toward the edge.

“Newt, F-fuck,” you choked out, your voice a fractured sliver of sound that was instantly swallowed. Your body squirmed against his mouth, your back arching off the cot as if you were trying to escape the very pleasure you were chasing.

Newt felt the way your thighs instantly began to close around his head. He felt the way your inner thighs spasmed against his ears and the way your walls began to clench frantically around his finger. He didn't slow down; he leaned into it, his tongue becoming a blurred, relentless force against your clit while his finger pushed deeper, mirroring the frantic pace of your heart.

"That's it," he hummed against your skin, the vibration sent directly from your core. “Give it to me, love."

That was the final blow. The combination of that gravelly, honey-pooled accent and the relentless friction of his tongue and fingers snapped the last thread of your restraint.

A muffled, strangled cry was let out, a violent wave of release crashed through you and you didn’t give a shit who could hear you now. And neither could he.

Newt pressed his face harder against you, his tongue working with a feverish, desperate hunger as he drank in the sweet, hot rush of your climax. He could taste the salt of your skin and the heady, intoxicating essence of your release, and it seemed to drive him absolutely mad. He swirled his tongue through you, catching every drop, his throat working as he swallowed down the proof of your undoing.

He was relentless, refusing to let the sensation fade. Even as the initial peak began to taper into sensitive, aftershock-filled shivers, he continued to lap at you with a slow, worshipping thoroughness. He licked upward from your entrance to the very top of your folds, his tongue heavy and wet, ensuring that not a single bit of you went un-tasted.

Eventually, after your body had finally finished its violent trembling—after he had effectively fucked you through your release with nothing but his mouth and a single, relentless finger—he slowly withdrew. The slide of his finger leaving you felt like a physical loss, the sudden absence of his heat leaving a hollow, echoing emptiness deep in your core that made you want to pull him back.

But Newt was already moving. He rose from his knees, he crawled up the length of the cot. He settled over you, his weight a comforting, solid pressure that helped ground you as the world slowly stopped spinning.

He was bracing himself on his forearms, hovering just inches from your face. That stupid, beautiful smile was plastered across his lips—the one that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners, the one that always fucked you up more than any physical act ever could. He looked triumphant, yet incredibly soft, his golden hair a chaotic halo around his flushed face.

He leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted nothing more than you. It wasn't the frantic, hungry kiss from before; it was slow and care filled.

As he pulled back just far enough to brush his nose against yours, your gaze drifted down to the prominent ache still straining against his trousers. A pang of guilt pierced through your hazy afterglow. You reached down instinctively, your hand hovering near his belt buckle.

"Newt," you whispered, your voice still wrecked. "Let me help you–”

He caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and pinning them gently to the pillow beside your head. He let out a low, breathy chuckle, his eyes shimmering with a sincerity that silenced your protest.

"Don't worry about that, love," he murmured, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles. "Seeing you like that– being the one making you feel like that. hearing those sounds you made? That’s more than enough. I meant what I said—I just wanted you to feel good."

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. "We’ve got all the time in the world now, yeah? We’ll have plenty of chances to explore the rest.”

[amoebaebaa]

neath the grove is a heart – yaelokre 🌾

ITS DONE IM DONE I CANNOT BELIEVE IT AHHHHH THAT ONLY TOOK........a month..........., what the hellj possessed me to render nine characters in one panel

HI TEAM ive had this silly lyrics based comic in mind forever now and the holidays FINALLY gave me the opportunity to spend entirely too long staring at my screen to realize it PLEASE TELL ME YOU SEE THE VISION PLEA hope u enjoy 🫶🫶

showing my friends the movies rn so pssssst do not tell them about the last frame theyre not that far in the story yet 😔😔

some shading i was proud of without the lighting layers;;

OKAY I LOVE YOU ALL SEE U SOON BYEEEEE 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

[par4n0id-andr0id]

Newt doodle :-)

[newtmaslvr]

Im so sleepy but I had to make these, I kept thinking about it

[heliads]

Hellooou! :) I hope you’re doing well, I was hoping if you’d be willing to write this really angsty idea I had for newt

I just rewatched the whole TMR trilogy and thought about this

So for this fic maybe reader was there way way before Thomas came up the box, so she has known Newt for a long time and they are both very close, maybe he looked out for us in the glade or something teehee 🤭

My idea is, reader is the one captured by WCKD instead of Minho, so like the movie, they go and save the immunes, but ofc, Newt is super cranky (pun intended), and when they go and get the serum, we are left with him, he tells us to take the necklace with the note inside (in this fic he writes it to us instead of Thomas)

N then, newt, in his deathbed confessed his love to us, so now we're even more crazy about saving him, because ofc we are so in love with this blonde British boy, and maybe when they finally get to reader and newt he’s basically dead at this point (idk how to work around the whole him trying to kill us thing haha) we still try injecting him and saving him, and the rest are like, gurl leave him he's already dead or something, so we are all leave without me I can't leave him alone 😭, and they are just like: don’t be a stupid b let’s go, and ultimately leave him there convinced his dead fr.

Now in the safe haven, we are all weepy and sad because of Newt, we even carved his name in the rock of the safe haven, we are really depressed (level we haven't eaten for days or a thing like that) because of his death.

And all of a sudden one day, reader sees Newt in the safe haven (maybe he did come alive because of the serum and found his way to the safe haven???) and reader being convinced it's just an illusion because WCKD messed with her head so much, but once she sees it's really him, instead of being like: omg love you're alive happy ever after 😝😜🤪😛, she's furious, she crashes out to Newt, and newt is like, what the bloody hell did I do?

He's so confused because we are mad at him, we start constantly ignoring him all over the safe haven for days, (because we are scared to get attached to him again because he's constantly putting himself at risk, we're scared to lose him again, we also feel as if he left us because he didn't tell anybody about his flare once it was too late, and we feel like we are still grieving him even though he's literally right there, basically a bunch of emotions...)

So him, being fed up of us ignoring him for DAYSSSS, confronts us (literally crash out) and we argue¿ idk

And from here you can take the lead, like, i maybe think after that argument we confess how we feel and then make up or something. Or maybe it can end angsty also.

If you don’t wanna write this because it’s super long or it’s just a stupid ahh idea just ignore it, I love love everything you write, specially for tmr boysss, take care cutie 😚

Alone Without You - Newt

masterlist

For the first time in a very long time, you feel alone.

You shouldn’t. There are still bodies around you, the faces of people just as scared as you are. For once, though, you have no idea who they are. The details of your capture are a dizzy haze of screaming and gunfire, but the end result is clear. You’re in the captivity of WCKD, which is certainly the last place you’d ever want to be. The right thing to do is to start talking to the other prisoners, figure out their stories and names and if anyone has a way to get out. It’s just, well– the last time you were surrounded by strangers, you were back in the Glade, and that was a lifetime ago.

You were one of the first Gladers to come up in the Box, so you’d had plenty of time to get used to the unfathomable discovery that you were stranded with no memories and no idea how to escape. Back then, there had only been a few of you, and most of those are gone now, too. George died a long time ago, and Alby– God, Alby– 

It’s easier to think about the friends you still have. Minho had been one of the first friends you made, and even if Gally was a little thickheaded at times he was still dependable, but there’s one name that surges to your mind more than any other, and that’s Newt.

After all, Newt was the one who really mattered, anyway. Newt was the one who made sure the other boys didn’t give you too much trouble for being the latest Greenie in a quickly growing string of new arrivals. Newt was the one who insisted that you try out all the jobs in the Glade so you could be sure that you settled into a position you actually liked. He was the one who comforted you when you felt sick for not remembering anything about your past life, the first one to cheer when you discovered your name, who saved you a space next to him at every Bonfire Night and laughed with you at every one of Gally’s ill-fated opponents in the ring. All of the Gladers had been your family, but Newt was more than that. It felt like he always had been.

Thanks to WCKD, your memories are gone, so your entire life has orbited around Newt. He has quite literally always been there for you. You suppose that’s why you feel so lost now that you’re away from him. It had all happened so fast, the quiet night in the Scorch suddenly shattered by the descent of the WCKD ships, how you’d attacked the guards so the other Gladers would have time to get away. You can still picture the look of horror in Newt’s eyes when they dragged you onto that ship, but even when you were in the belly of the beast, a fierce sense of joy still curled in your stomach when you knew that he had gotten away.

Now you’re in the depths of one of their holding cells, surrounded by a new group of confused test subjects. It feels like awful deja vu, but these kids aren’t your Gladers and they never will be. Even if they’re looking just as terrified and confused as you did when you first came up in the Box. If Newt were here, he would have started befriending them already, would have looked out the window and tried to find a way out. Newt would have stayed calm, but Newt was always better at this than you, anyway. Even as his shadow, you could never quite match his natural knack for leadership.

Still, you owe it to him to try. You grit your teeth and stand, forcing yourself into the center of the captive teenagers. “Listen, everybody. I know you’re nervous to be back in WCKD central, and trust me, so am I, but we have to stay calm. If we keep our heads in order, we can work together, maybe find a way out of here.”

One of the kids near you scoffs. “Yeah, right. You think WCKD can’t keep a bunch of kids in place?”

You fold your arms across your chest. “They already failed at that once, right? I mean, that’s why we’re all here. They messed up the first time and they’re going to do it again. They underestimate us because they don’t know what we’re capable of, but I do. I know we can get out of here.”

Some of the prisoners are starting to nod along. Encouraged, you keep going. “Come on, guys. We’ve survived this far despite everything else. You’re telling me we can’t get past one locked door? After everything, this is it?”

It takes a bit more convincing, but at last, you’re able to rally most of them to check for loose vents, assess the room for possible exits, and grab anything they can for use as weapons. It’s not much, but it’s all you can do. Better to waste your time looking for a magic escape that doesn’t exist than sit around waiting to die.

The cautious atmosphere of hope is quickly shattered when footsteps start to echo in the hall outside the door. The other kids start to bunch together, waiting for the inevitable. The lock chimes, opening the door to reveal three guards in WKCD gear. Your eyes widen. You’d hoped you’d have a little more time, but they must have been waiting for your arrival for a while. Why waste time when they could cut you open immediately?

You wait for them to start barking orders, but strangely enough, one starts reaching for his mask instead of a gun. The black metal clicks open, and all of a sudden you’re not scared at all anymore, because you’re not staring at the cold visage of a WCKD guard but the face you wanted to see most of all. It’s Newt, your Newt.

In a moment, you’re moving towards him, unable to contain your delight. Strangely enough, his expression had been angry when he took off the mask, lips curled in barely disguised irritation, but it’s wiped from his face the second he sees you, and then he’s happy again, holding out his arms to pull you close to him.

“Missed you,” he mumbles against your temple. “You had me scared, you know that? Don’t ever do that again. Like you were trying to get captured.”

You laugh weakly. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“Not worth it,” he says. “Couldn’t think straight for days, Y/N. All I could think of is what would happen if I was too late. What would I do then, huh?”

You gently pull away from his embrace just enough to look him in the eyes. The pain in his gaze– it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. You thought you were going mad trying to live without him for the first time, but Newt looks even worse off than you. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that the other two guards have pulled their masks off to reveal themselves as Thomas and Minho. They’re exchanging worried looks at Newt when they think you can’t see. A cold feeling starts to descend in your stomach, the sense that something has gone wrong.

Still, it can’t be too bad. Newt is here. You’re fine so long as he’s here. “You weren’t too late, Newt. I’m fine. Now, how about we get out of here, and you can tell me off for being stupid afterwards?”

He chuckles, but it’s forced. “I can manage that.”

He lets you step away long enough to tell the other teenagers in WCKD’s cell that they’re going to be alright so long as they stay with your friends, then head back out into the corridors. Thomas and Minho, ever the runners, lead the way, you right after them. Newt stays close, no matter what, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets you slip away again.

As expected, escaping the WCKD facility is not easy, far from it. As if it weren’t a big enough shock to see Gally again, who appears long enough to guide the other Immune prisoners to safety, you’re stopped by Janson, who chases you like a man possessed. You’re able to lose him in the nick of time by jumping through a window into a pool of water far below. For a moment, you’re weightless, falling through the dark night, and time seems to stand still. Explosions bloom around the city, upside down flowers of fire and ash. Neon lights trail incomprehensible messages in the broken windows of the nearby buildings, and you fall, and fall.

The water is cold, and shocks you like a knife through the ribs. It stuns you, and for several long moments you forget what you’re meant to be doing at all until you start choking on water and force yourself to swim up towards the surface. Thomas finds you and guides you towards the edge of the water. You look around for the others, movements growing more frantic until you spot Newt and Minho several yards away.

At first, you think they’re hugging, until you clear the water from your eyes and look closer. No, it’s not just the embrace of two friends glad they didn’t die, it’s something else, something worse. In fact, it looks like Minho is holding Newt back. Newt is angry, more than you’ve ever seen him. He’s shouting something unintelligible, and his entire body twists as he tries to get away from Minho and dive back into the water. As he flails, veins stand out against his forehead, his throat, but they’re awful looking, dark like ink, and when the chill of the water finally leaves your mind, you remember where you’ve seen someone who looked like that before, and the last of your hope drains away.

You turn to Thomas, who’s watching the same scene with heavy, quiet eyes. “Thomas,” you say quietly, haltingly, “How long has Newt been Infected?”

Thomas looks over at you, and if you had been praying to be wrong, your pleas are not answered. “I’m not sure,” Thomas says hoarsely. “I was hoping– I thought he was Immune. Like the rest of us.”

“But he isn’t,” you whisper.

Thomas shakes his head. You feel like sobbing. To come this far– to lose everything, your home so many of your friends, and now this– it’s just not fair. Nothing has been fair, not here, not with WCKD, but this feels like too much. You had accepted the loss of your memories, the destruction of the world first with your escape from the Maze and then the desolation of the Scorch, hell, you’d even managed to accept the risk of Cranks so long as you were with your friends, but this you cannot handle. You could keep running from danger for the rest of your life just so long as you had Newt, that’s the way it had always been, but you realize now that you won’t ever have him again. Newt is no longer Newt. What you saw when he rescued you was the last clarity you’d ever get from him. All that’s left is the disease.

You let out a sob, and the sound makes Newt’s head snap up. When he sees you, he relaxes at once, hanging motionless in Minho’s arms. Unable to stop yourself, you walk over to them. Newt stares up at you through virus-darkened eyes. Thomas taps your shoulder, says something about trying to find a cure, and then he and Minho take off into the night, sprinting as if their lives depend on it. They’re gone in moments, and then you’re with the boy who used to be Newt.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, and claws for something at his neck. You lean back slightly, afraid he’s going to hurt himself, but then you see the light of the explosions flash off of something metallic, something he presses into your hands.

“Open it,” he chokes out. “Later. When it’s– when it’s safe.”

You nod, pressing the silver keepsake into your pocket. You can’t seem to take your eyes off of him.

Newt tries to say something else, but he dissolves into a coughing fit, leaving drops of dark blood on the asphalt around you. “I– I have to–”

You grasp at his hands. “Save your strength, Newt. They’re going to get the cure, it’s going to be alright. You’re going to be fine.”

He lets out a hacking sound that might be a laugh. “I’m sure. Y/N, I have to tell you– after everything–”

“It can wait,” you plead. “I’ve known you all my life, Newt. Don’t you leave me now.”

“All our lives,” he hums, the sound off-tune. “You were the best of all of them, you know. All the Gladers. All of them.”

Your throat feels raw, but you haven’t screamed yet. “You were my favorite too, Newt. By a long shot. My best friend.”

He frowns sharply at that, his torn lips a harsh slash on his face. “I liked being friends. Your friend. But I– I wanted more. I wanted you.”

The night seems to stretch on forever, utterly silent except for you and Newt and the awful pounding in your chest. Newt’s fingers curl around yours. “I love you, Y/N. I love you. I loved you the whole time.”

Your head feels funny. Maybe it’s the tears that have started to course down your cheeks. You don’t remember when you decided to cry, but you can’t seem to stop. Frustrating, that. You can’t control anything, not even this.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” You say. All those months, that wasted opportunity.

He manages to grin. “Scared, I guess. Maybe you didn’t want–”

“I did,” you break in hastily. “I did, Newt. I love you, too. I love you.”

Movement up ahead startles you, and you jerk your head up, scared WCKD will be descending again, but it’s just Thomas and Minho, thank everything.

You let out a gasp of relief and call over to them. “The cure, do you have it? Hurry!”

For some reason, though, they’re not speeding up. In fact, they’re slowing down, looking at you with twin expressions of grief. You can’t understand why they chose now of all times to stop moving, and you scream at them to get the cure over here, damn it.

Thomas reaches you at last, but he still won’t give you the cure. “Y/N–” He says, but can’t continue.

“The cure,” you snap at him. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

Minho’s eyes look empty. “It’s too late, Y/N.”

You don’t understand what he’s talking about. Newt isn’t in the best shape, obviously, but he was just speaking to you a moment ago, so it’s clearly fine. You look back to Newt to show Minho what you mean, but for some reason, Newt is lying perfectly still. Conserving energy, maybe. His eyes stare up at you, open and glassy, his lips parted with the ghost of his last words.

“No,” you say, unable to understand what you’re seeing. “No, he’s alright. He was fine just a few moments ago.”

You squeeze Newt’s hand, but he doesn’t respond. “Newt,” you say, and your cheeks feel wet again, a drop splashing onto Newt’s motionless chest. “Newt, you have to get up now. We have the cure. It’s okay.”

But he doesn’t move. Thomas is crying, kneeling on the ground next to you. Minho looks like he’s anywhere but here, not able to comprehend the moment he’s living in, the body at his feet.

You spot the cure in Thomas’ hand and grab it before he can stop you, uncapping the needle and injecting it into Newt’s arm. Too late, Thomas tries to grab the cure back, but you’ve already delivered the drug. Newt doesn’t move immediately, but that’s okay, maybe it just takes a little while for the medicine to take hold. Just in case, you inject him again, on a different vein, until they grab the cure away from you. A sudden wind is blowing, fierce and strong. When you look up, you realize that an aircraft is descending overhead, the exit ramp down. You can make out the faces of your friends, but they feel distant, practically a world away.

Thomas and Minho try to guide you onto the aircraft, but you fight when you realize they want you to leave Newt. “We have to bring him,” you cry. “He’s going to be alright, you’ll see. We just have to let the cure work. We can’t leave him. He’s our friend, we can’t leave him!”

You try to wriggle out of their grasp and back to Newt, but it’s two against one, and you can hardly think for crying. You blink and you’re in the aircraft, staring down at the city. Someone is standing next to you, offering you a blanket, asking if you’re okay. It’s such a ridiculously stupid question that you start to laugh, and then you can’t stop. She gives you something, you think, because you’re so tired you can hardly stand up. Black starts to swirl in at the edges of your vision. Just before it takes you over, you notice a bag zipped shut near the door about the size of someone your age. You start to stumble towards it, but your eyes insist on shutting and then you can’t think about anything at all.

When you wake up again, it’s warm out. The sun is shining. You’re almost certain you died, but a doctor comes in some time later to assure you that you haven’t, that you’ve been brought somewhere called the Safe Haven and you’re going to be alright. You know for a fact that nothing about you could ever be considered alright, but you just nod and say polite things until the doctor leaves. It’s easier being alone. You don’t have to think about the right words to say. You don’t have to listen to everyone talking about how wonderful it is to be alive.

You sleep a lot, and when you dream, you dream of the past. Half are memories, half aren’t. You can’t really tell which is which until you wake up, at which point you’re so devastated to be awake that you try to go back to sleep again immediately. You dream of Newt, laughing with you in the Glade, trying Gally’s awful brew around a fire, sneaking off to talk during breaks, crossing the Scorch with you. Dying in your arms. Telling you he loves you, too late and too quickly.

The painkillers the doctors gave you wear off soon enough, and then you can’t spend as much time sleeping anymore, which you despise. People have been into your hut a few times, asking if you want to come out and be with the others, but you answer them with enough vitriol that they stop asking. That’s good. You don’t want to see any of them, laughing and smiling as if the whole world didn’t end when you left that city. 

You take to walking around the Safe Haven early at dawn and late at night, when you’re certain that you won’t run into anyone else. You discover that this so-called paradise is an island in the middle of nowhere, somewhere WCKD or Cranks won’t ever find you. The grass is green. The water is blue. It doesn’t feel real in the slightest.

There’s a stone in the middle of camp they’ve been using as a memorial to those who died. You  steal a knife from somewhere and carve Newt’s name into it, right at the top, because if you can’t bring him with you, you can at least bring his name, his memory. You keep the knife. You keep the memories. You keep the necklace he gave you, the one with the note tucked inside telling you he was infected and that he loved you, two things you learned too late. It makes him sound doomed, and it burns against your skin when you wear it.

One morning, you’re wrapping up your walk around the island. You’d stayed out longer than you usually do, entranced by a field of wildflowers somewhere far from camp. People are starting to emerge from their tents and huts, beginning work for the day. You can see Minho eating breakfast with the others, he always was an early riser, even in this home that isn’t yours, and Brenda’s talking with Jorge about some plan to expand the camp. Conversation bubbles up to you, and you look around at the gathered residents of the Safe Haven. Most of them are scarred in ways no one can comprehend, but they’re starting to put the pieces back together, starting to feel human again. It’ll take a long time, but they just might be able to make it work.

And then– in the corner of your eye, a flash of blond hair. You stare, but what you see is impossible. You must be mad, because you swear you see Newt emerging from a hut, hand up to shade his face just like he did as a Track-Hoe. He takes a few steps forward, and then he seems to feel your gaze on him and he looks up at you.

Your breath catches in your throat. It can’t be. It’s impossible. You must be seeing things. You turn and swiftly disappear into the woods, hurtling past glades and groves until no one can find you. You curl up at the base of a tall maple, breath hard in your throat, and stay there until you manage to calm down again. Newt isn’t here, he died on that street and you know it, even if you couldn’t believe it for the longest time. Maybe you finally are going mad.

For the next few days, you keep your head down. If you hear a familiar laugh, you run for the hills, or lose yourself in the crowds. One time, you swear you feel a hand on your arm, and you shake it loose and disappear, staying outside overnight to avoid having to return home. You should talk to the doctors about changing your meds, something is obviously wrong with you. You avoid Thomas and Minho, even though they keep trying to talk to you about something, certain they’ll pick up on the fact that you’re clearly going crazy.

And then, the next day, you can’t run any longer. You take your usual morning walk and someone is waiting for you under your favorite cedar. He folds his arms teasingly and says, “You’re a really hard person to find, you know.”

You stare. It looks like him, but it can’t be. “You’re dead,” you say emptily. This isn’t real. It can’t be. You’ll blink and he’ll be gone again, vanished like dust.

Stubbornly, he stays. “Not at the moment,” Newt says pleasantly. “Although I think I was for a bit. Certainly felt like it.”

You shake your head and walk on. You’re hoping this is the sort of thing you can outrun, but this illusion of Newt follows you. “It’s me, Y/N. Honest.”

He reaches out and grabs your arm to stop you. You stare uncomprehendingly at the fingers wrapped around your forearm. They feel real, which is impossible. It couldn’t be. Could it?

“How is that possible?” You ask haltingly. “I saw your body, Newt. You weren’t moving.”

Newt shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. I thought the Flare killed me, but the doctors think you got the cure to me just in the nick of time. I was totally unconscious for a while, it took me a while to wake up. Even then I didn’t know what was going on. You think you’re confused, imagine waking up in a body bag.”

He chuckles, eyes wide with the memory, then continues. “One of the doctors here found me. Nearly had a heart attack, poor chap. They lay me down somewhere out of the way with an IV drip. I wasn’t able to even sit up until a few days ago, it took everything in me to walk. The first thing I tried to do was find you, Y/N, I promise, but no one said they’d seen you. I even tried to get Minho or Thomas to send word but they said you were avoiding them, which was fair. Everything’s different now.”

That’s the understatement of the century. You can’t seem to stop staring, terrified you’ll find some clue that this is all a dream after all and he’ll go back to being a figment of your imagination. “You were dead,” you repeat tonelessly. “You were dead, and you told me you loved me.”

Newt winces. “Right, that. Bad timing?”

All of a sudden, you feel something for the first time since you got to the Safe Haven, and that something is anger, hot and deep. “Bad timing? Newt, I’ve known you for years. You could have told me at any point. When we got out of the Maze, maybe. That would be special. Or while we were still happy in the Glade. Or in the Scorch. But no, you waited until you were on death’s door to whisper that little fact in my ear. What if you hadn’t come back, Newt? What if I’d had to go my whole life knowing I could have been with you but never was? How was I supposed to live with that? How was I supposed to forgive myself for losing you?”

Your voice rises with every sentence until you’re practically shouting at him. Newt’s eyes widen, but to his credit, he doesn’t back down. Instead, he waits until you’ve said your piece, then surges forward and hugs you. For a moment, you’re perfectly still, a person of glass about to shatter, and then you melt into him and it’s just like every other day before. How long have you known him? How long has he been keeping you safe, keeping you happy? How long have you been his?

“I was selfish,” Newt mumbles against your hair. “I wanted you to know but I was nervous you wouldn’t feel the same way. Then I was too selfish to die without ever saying anything. But we don’t have to worry about the what-ifs anymore, right? We’re both here. We’re safe.” Safe. You can’t honestly remember the last time you were free from harm for more than a few hours. Maybe you never have been since your memories were stolen. Maybe you’ve never been safe at all. When Newt holds you close, when you can feel your breathing synchronise and the last of your worries ebb away, it finally occurs to you that you are going to be alright. That hole in your chest isn’t empty anymore. You have Newt. You could do anything.

tmr tag list: @blondsauduun, @ellobruv, @retvenkos, @neewtmas, @mayfieldss, @jvst4ever, @gods-fools-heroes, @pjxcksonswrd, @23victoria, @w1shes43, @imwaysthelastchoice, @fadedver, @il0vebeingdelulu

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

[ashley-foster-13]

Hi! Me again, I just can't stop reading tmr headcanons. Can I request 'what would tmr boys reaction would be if their S/O got kidnapped instead of Minho.' Thank you!

What would tmr boys reaction would be if their S/O got kidnapped instead of Minho

- His s/o was not the type to throw themselves in danger

- however, when the berg showed on the horizon, they were one of the first people to put their hands on a rifle

- Thomas got there late, and there was no s/o in sight, so he figured they were safe

- until they sprang out of nowhere, trying to tackle Janson

- the nearby soldier knocked them out right away

- Thomas struggled against the two soldiers holding him down

- misplaced his shoulder in the process

- he yelled the name of his s/o so loudly he probably wouldn't be able to speak for a week

- a huge fight started, during it the kids, including his s/o were loaded in the berg and took off

- being reckless as he is, Thomas managed to keep Janson off board, beating the living hell out of him

- soldiers stopped him, but not before Ratman was half dead and bleeding

- Thomas didn't hide his tears

- was terrified Wicked would experiment on s/o, or kill, or God knows what else

- wouldn't stop thinking about how to save them

- would do anything to get them out alive

- would have dreams when he saves them and hugs and kisses them, wakes up with tears of happiness streaming down his cheecks only to realize it wasn't real and cry some more, but in fear and sadness

- after saving his s/o, Thomas is super overprotective of them

- like, every little thing, a paper cut or a bruise or a slightly different voice would make him run towards them, asking if they were okay

- eventually came back to normal

- but we all know he's soooooo caring and protective

- the moment he saw his s/o in Wicked's arms, his world stopped

- however, he got out of his stupor quickly, trying to run for you, but the soldier kicked his bad leg, causing him to fall

- when he finally managed to stand up, s/o was already gone

- he kept yelling curses at them, kept hitting those injured soldiers who were left there to die

- it helped nothing and he knew that

- honestly, he could've murdered someone if not for Minho, who held him in a tight hug until he calmed down

- his anger turned to an agony

- he was crying hard, because he was in terrible pain, physically and emotionally

- he vowed to get s/o back safe and sound

- would be the first to find them, as if he felt where they were

- didn't let go of their hand until they reached the Safe Haven

- both didn't go out of the hut for a couple of days, talking, crying and promising their love to each other

- when he barely escaped being captured by Wicked, he thought the victory was there

- little did he know they grabbed s/o instead

- s/o bravely fought the soldiers, but Minho couldn't see it

- and then his s/o stands on the berg, helplessness in their eyes as they take off

- and Minho just stands there, angry at Wicked, and furious with himself for being unable to help

- Newt and Thomas promise they'll find his s/o

- he became very grumpy after that, but also really really silent

- sometimes his bottled up feelings would unleash on everyone because of any little thing

- like a stupid question, or a fallen fork

- he wpuld be so eager to find his s/o he didn't even think when he stalked inside the Wicked headquarters fighting off every soldier like they were bugs

- he found s/o exhausted, hurt and bleeding

- but they were alive, that's all that mattered

- hugged them all the way back

- watched as the medics patched them up, controlling everything

- never leaving their side while rlthey recovered

[zativertz]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Running Up That Hill ‧₊˚ ⋅

The day you had arrived in the Glade was a blur amongst events—a faint mixture of anxiety and shock that settled in your bones that lasted until the next Greenie came up in the box, just as scared as you were.

The one thing you did remember was the long nights you’d spent awake in the homestead, refusing to eat even a morsel as concerned eyes whispered more than lips could—and when most had seemed to give up on you, there was a peculiar blonde boy who always seemed to hover, always watching and waiting.

You’d barely spoken to the blonde in your passing days within the Glade, barely spoken to most in fact. Most of the boys didn’t know what your name was, unaware of what your voice even sounded like amongst the bustling living of Glade life. The only person who’d really come and talked with you, waiting patiently until you felt just comfortable enough to respond—was Newt.

Newt seemed sympathetic to your plight of being the only girl in the Glade, the anxiety of being in a completely new place with no memories of who or where you’re from already had weighed down upon your mind enough—but to add in being the only girl amongst boys, most being stronger and faster than you? Now that was truly terrifying. His eyes were gentle, not expectant of some sort of grand gesture from you where you burst out talking and showcase all you know—simply just waiting and watching as he sat beside you on cool spring nights.

“Try it.” Newt offered you an odd jar full of an even odder colored liquid. Hesitantly, you took it into your hands and took a small sip, only for the liquid to burn as it traveled down your throat and turn your taste buds bitter. Gagging, you spit out what you could as Newt barely stifled a laugh. “Bloody awful, isn’t it? It’s Gally’s own special mixture.”

“It tastes like piss.” You mumbled, and Newt’s eyes seemed to widen for a moment—before softening as he laughed just a bit louder now.

“It’s nice finally meeting the person behind that face of yours.” He commented, removing the jar from your hand as he took another sip. The crackling of the distant bonfire was enough to illuminate the rosiness of his cheeks, warmth flooding throughout him and Newt couldn’t tell if it was from some weird form of joy or from the mysterious alcohol.

“Say that again and I won’t speak for a month.” You threatened with a certain softness that gave away the fact that you didn’t truly mean it, reaching out to take the jar once more—the liquid burning just a bit less this time than before.

Defensively, Newt put his hands up, shrugging his shoulders, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “My sincerest apologies.”

“I honestly think Gally would be trying to poison us with how badly that piece of klunk tastes.” Resting your back against the base pillar of the homestead, you took one last chug of the liquid before handing it over to Newt—the flush on your cheeks finally starting to match his as a calming buzz began to float through your brain.

“Yeah, I bet he would if he could. That shank has a piss poor attitude even on his best days.” Newt responded just as smoothly, finally drawing a laugh from you that wasn’t a scoff or an eye roll—but genuine laughter. “But don’t mind him, his bad attitude and knack for rules has its uses.”

You only sighed out, allowing your eyes to fall shut for a moment. There was a moment of silence—one that wasn’t quite uncomfortable, yet exactly something you’d prefer. Newt was first to break the silence, as he always had.

“You seem to be getting more comfortable.” His words were followed by a hum, smooth and barely there. “Are you enjoying working as a med-jack?”

“It’s… nice. Nicer than working as a slopper, at least.” You murmured, still quiet but a bit more sure of yourself with each word. “The builders come in far too often and the track hoes don’t come in enough.”

You punctuated your words with a nudge of your elbow towards Newt, a scoffing laugh resounding from him. He knew you were right, the track hoes and himself included had the worst habits of ignoring their injuries until they were infected.

“Do you remember anything? About the past—your past?” Newt suddenly changed the topic, not exactly meeting your gaze but not looking away either.

Sucking in a breath, you began to think—and think, yet nothing from such thoughts came to you besides a headache and frustration, something that was evident on your face as your expression scrunched and your lips turned into a sneer. A hand clasped onto your shoulder, gentle yet firm—full of warmth and surprising comfort.

“Don’t think too much about it. You know your name, and even if you didn’t, you’re still you.” Newt had shifted to look at you head on, holding an empathetic gaze as his thumb traced small circles upon your shoulder. Even with the alcohol in his system, he still managed to show a certain amount of care that managed to warm your bones. “Let’s do something—anything, to get your mind off it, yeah?”

“Do what? Like a game?” You quirked your brow at Newt and his expression lightened, a smile peaking through.

“Yeah, why not.”

“How about a race then?”

And that’s how you ended up at the edge of a small hill within the Glade, an overconfident smile upon your face as Newt lunged into a position to ready himself. You both agreed to count till three, breaking off into a sprint up the hill.

Your lungs ached and your legs tired, but running had never felt so calming as you sprinted up the silky green terrain. Your head tilted, making note of how Newt was a few paces behind and you were growing close to the finish—only for you to never reach it as arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you toward the earth.

A startled sound soon followed by a laugh left you as Newt rolled down the hill beside you, tumbling and turning—one hand around your waist while the other thoughtlessly cradled the back of your head. As you reached the bottom of the hill, you landed atop Newt—a large grin, far too cheeky and toothy for your liking but altogether genuinely joyful, upon your face.

Newt spoke your name, the word being mixed with a laugh as he gazed up at you—his warm brown eyes bright with starlight—and you swore you felt your heart clench and throb in a way that felt far too real and far too vulnerable.

You screamed out as the bullet pierced through the flesh of your thigh, grazing the skin—yet the pain flooded your system nonetheless.

Teresa had betrayed you, choosing to turn your lot over to WICKED in exchange for the exchange of a cure that may never come. The first thing that came was fire, then bullets as soldiers rounded up all whom they could. Recklessly, you’d stepped in front of a member of the Right Arm as Janson’s gun was trained on them—taking the bullet in their place, yet the pain that followed was unimaginable.

You don’t know when you’d hit the ground, nor did you know when Newt had started shouting your name. All you felt were arms wrap around your middle and underneath your armpits, heaving you forward when you felt too weak to do so. You whined out in pain as that familiar blonde haired boy was shouting atop the panic and gunfire. “Stay with me—just breathe and stay with me, please.”

Newt supported your weak leg, and you supported his limp with your own—working together to break into a decent jog that put distance between you and the chaos. Maneuvering your weight just enough, Newt laid you down upon the dusty sand—turning his back to you as he readied himself to return to aid the Right Arm.

“Newt,” Your voice came out more desperate, more harsh than intended—your hand grasping along his hand in a grip far too tight, yet he didn’t fight it. “Please… come back to me.”

Newt didn’t respond, but the subtle twitch in his jaw and the softening of brown eyes in firelight was enough to quell a bit of your fear—he felt whatever you were fearing as well. He only nodded, breaking off into a jog away from you as once more, your heart did not only beat for yourself.

“Stop!—just stop. Why do you feel the need to pity me?” Newt practically shouted at you from across the room—his arms crossed over his chest as he sneered and scowled.

“Since when is worrying about you pitying you, Newt?” Your voice raised as well, tears pricking the edges of your eyes—yet refusing to fall, refusing to crumble in front of him. “I just want to make sure you’re okay—is that such a big deal?”

You began to approach once more, grasping at the sleeve of his jacket only for him to jerk away as if you had just burned him—as if you were infected. Scoffing, anger overcame you for a moment as your hands made contact with his chest, shoving harshly. “What the shuck is wrong with you? You’re acting so cold all of a sudden and I just—“

You couldn’t finish as a sob broke through you, the tears finally spilling down your cheeks as you looked away—feeling stupid for breaking down finally, for allowing yourself to be overcome with all the negativity you’ve felt since your time in the Glade. “…I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.”

Newt had been acting oddly toward you—distant, far too distant for your liking. You two were once so close, in the Glade, with the Right Arm. It felt as if everything had changed within a month, his heart becoming chilled as his eyes no longer met yours with warmth—but with apathy.

You turned your back to him, taking in harsh ragged breaths to clam yourself—though in truth, they did little. Warm hands found your waist from behind, encircling as they drew you near—yet you fought against them this time. “Don’t—don’t, please—I can’t…”

Newt continued to draw you in closer until you stilled, allowing him to do so—pulling you tight against his chest as sobs raked through you like a raging storm. He held you tight—tighter than he ever had before, and it felt as if this moment wasn’t just a moment of comfort, but a moment of finality. As your tears quelled and your breath evened, a tense silence overcome you both—full of something unspoken.

“Newt,” you breathed out raggedly, refusing to face him as you spoke. “…I love you.”

Newt’s movements stilled, his breath ceasing as he stood—until he suddenly broke away from you, taking slow steps away from you. “Well, I don’t.”

You didn’t speak, only listening to the sound of his footsteps disappear as his lie resounded around the room like an echo.

Your heart sobbed when your eyes couldn’t.

Sickness, pure and utter sickness overwhelmed your senses as you stood upon the berg within the Last City. Brenda grabbed what she could as she began to leave the aircraft, her expression tight as she knew she had limited time to reach Newt. Your stomach felt tight, looped in knots as realizations that came far too late began to plague your mind.

Newt was infected—and that explained quite a lot. The anger, the distance… his rejection.

Before Brenda could possibly break the threshold of the berg, you’d ripped the serum from her hands—sprinting into the demolished city. She screamed your name, yet it was nothing compared to the pounding within your ears as blood rushed throughout your body.

The Last City, once a place for the elite who were lucky enough to avoid the Flare, was now a place of ruin as rebellion forces ransacked each building—setting them ablaze with death and destruction. Rounding the corner of a building, you’d barely managed to dive away from a group of rebels and soldiers in a stand-off, gunfire piercing the atmosphere violently.

You rolled back onto your feet, coughing a bit as ash flooded your lungs. You limped into a run, your bones aching as you began to sprint once more—this time, even faster than before. You hadn’t even realized you had been crying with each pounding of your foot against pavement, trying to calm yourself as best as you could—yet you knew you were on borrowed time—Newt was on borrowed time.

You don’t know when you fell in love with him. You don’t even know when you’d began to think he was more than just a random boy within the Glade—but you found yourself longing for those nights back when you both found peace in each other’s presence, when the world didn’t feel like it was trying to constantly kill you—when life and love felt easy and natural. When time didn’t feel like it was working against you.

Your lungs burned, your legs ached, and your limp became more pronounced the longer you ran—but you didn’t dare stop. You couldn’t. Newt—that lovely idiot, the one who held your hand when you cried and wiped away tears as a bullet was torn from your leg, the one who held you like you were fragile when you felt like the world was collapsing around you, the one who looked at you with love and not hatred, not scorn, but genuine—real and soul shattering love, was relying on you.

Breaking past the last block, you’d rounded the corner—your heart thrumming and vomit rising within your throat as you’d envisioned Newt standing there, sick but alive.

Yet fantasies were such a beautiful and false thing.

Thomas crouched beside Newt’s lying body, his expression disconnected with the world as tears pooled from brown eyes that expressed the hurt and anger that words couldn’t. And poor Newt, laid upon the ground, unmoving.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You could only feel as Thomas stood up, hobbling as he grabbed the gun from the floor—staring at you distantly before turning his back entirely. He left.

One step, then another, you approached the boy you’d loved with all your heart as his eyes stared blankly up at the sky above—and he looked just as beautiful as he did back in the Glade, when his heart beat wildly as he spoke of the moon and stars. Yet this time, there would be no talk of stars and no warm touches or the soft rasping of breath.

You collapsed, a choked scream coming from you as you grasped his shirt tightly within the palms of your hands—warm hot tears pooled within your eyes and you could no longer stop the pain that took over your heart, feeling itself be torn into tiny pieces that you were unsure could ever be put back together.

“Please no—stay with me. Please, come back to me. Newt! Please…” You shook him, fingers tightening around his collar as you sobbed louder. “Don’t leave me—please… not like this… I love you, I love you so much…”

You pressed your forehead against his own, his skin lacking the same warmth you’d once relished in. Your entire body shook with each rasping cry.

“Please, you beautiful fool…” You whispered, placing a singular kiss upon forehead—pouring all the welled up heartache you’d ever felt into the touch.

Strong arms hooked from beneath your own, hoisting you up as you continued to sob and soon, you began to fight. You screamed, begged and kicked even as Minho pulled you further and further away from the scene—feeling the threads that tethered your soul to Newt’s with each step snap until finally, there was nothing left.

You don’t remember what had happened after you’d been dragged into the streets of the demolished city. You’d blacked out far before you’d reached the berg, but when you awoke, you were in a new place—a place they called a safe haven far away from any suffering.

The breeze of the shoreline sent a shiver down your spine as you spent hours just walking along the coast, remaining within your own company. Many had tried to urge you out of your self-induced loneliness, yet you didn’t budge—not until Thomas finally roused you.

He didn’t say much as he guided you to sit down upon one of the wooden benches, a small piece of paper clenched tightly within his fist as he sat down beside you—allowing silence to overcome the both of you for a moment. The silence was raw, uncomfortably so as it allowed your heart to whisper all its regrets into your mind and each thought stung more than the last.

Finally, Thomas spoke, his voice unsure and full of thinly veiled grief. “He loved you.”

Those three words were enough to have tears streaming down your cheeks as you leaned over, hunching as you brought your hands to your face, wiping the tears.

“He loved you far more than he could ever admit, but he was scared of losing you even more.” Thomas finished, reaching out carefully—taking one of your hands within his own as he gave it a firm squeeze. “Live, if not for yourself, for him.”

You barely managed to croak out an appreciative thank you before dismissing yourself to your hut.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month within the safe haven. It took hours for you to be ready, to prevent yourself from breaking down at the sight of that familiar name that rolled off your tongue like music and made you feel alive—but you had grieved, and you had mourned.

The bonfire shined bright, illuminating the large rock that sat upon the grassy coast. Each person took their turns carving the names of those who had all brought the gladers here, who had fought until the end and changed the lives of many. You approached with Minho beside you, feeling just a bit stronger—though full of grief.

His hands chipped away at the rock, carving and changing the sediments until they finally resembled the boy you’d loved. Minho traced his hands along the engraving before pulling back, giving you a bit to breathe as the world seemed to close in around you—just for a moment.

Tracing your hands along the grooves of the rock, tracing his name like a prayer. Placing your head against the rock, you finally whispered out your final goodbye. “Every night, I whisper your name because I don’t ever want to forget you. And I don’t think I ever will. I miss you so much… I will see you again… one day, but not yet, my love, not yet. Goodbye, Newt.”

Pulling away from the stone, you finally smiled—though sad, it was genuine.

You’d survived, and though part of you had died with Newt in the Last City, just as barren land does, your heart will heal and he will always be held within it.