I have 3 possible new urls saved should I go with Buckytookthewheel Marvel-cinematic-unibrow Wintersavenger Don't worry I'm not switching fandoms I love tmr more that anything but I'm really feeling some of these marvel based urls I'm gunna keep the-wicked-runner saved too incase I want to change back so yeah Please help me pick a new URL , thanks :)
When Thomas dreams, he always dreams the same thing.
Newt.
At least, that’s what he calls himself. Short for Newton, “suits me better than Isaac,” he had claimed once before. Thomas believed him, the name Isaac seemed too sweet to fit into the demeanour that Newt alluded. When the dreams had started, back when Thomas was eleven, he had been terrified of Newt. Could he be blamed for that? To his young eyes, Newt had been huge, tall in a way that Thomas could only hope to grow into; muscled from hard labour and tanned from long exposure to sunlight. He was all harsh expressions and scars and his limp had given him a kind of lumbering grace. Now, Thomas could appreciate every mark upon his body as a sign of survive, could take comfort in the strength of his arms, could find contentment in the gentle smiles.
The dreams always start out the same way. They’re in the centre of a maze. He knows it’s a maze because Newt always sighs at him about his apparent want to be a ‘runner’ – Thomas honestly didn’t understand that, track was literally one of the worst things he’d ever had to do – someone who ventures outside the safety of the glade. He says that it’s too dangerous, that only special kind of shuckfaces’ go out there, and that Thomas was not one of them. And then Thomas would frown, offended by whatever ‘shuckface’ meant. Dream him always seemed to know.
There is no one around them, although Thomas knows there somewhere close by, there were people. About fifty of them. Boys, all just like Newt. All just like him. But they were secluded, and the noises beyond barely reach them so Thomas can pretend that they’re alone. Newt always seemed intent on doing that, just enjoying the break, away from prying eyes and responsibilities. Thomas knew he had a lot of them. He laid back against the grass, stretched out with one arm folded up over his eyes to shield them from the never relenting sun above. His hair would fan out around his head, long and never tied back.
Thomas would be propped up next to him. Sitting up, with one leg bent and his arm wrapped around it. He would squinted into the distance, into the open space in the wall that lead out into the maze. He held both equal amounts of fear and awe of it, but he knows that now, during the day, there was no chance of danger. The urge to get up and run out there was almost overwhelming and his hands clenched into fists at his side.
“Don’t even think about it,” Newt murmurs.
“About what?” Thomas feigns ignorance.
Newt tilts his arm so that he can glare at the other boy from beneath it, and Thomas huffs, dropping onto his back heavily. “I won’t,” he promises.
“For now,” Newt adds because he knows. He would sigh like it was a chore and turn to face Thomas, “I guess I’ll have to keep you distracted.”
Thomas would smile his amusement, and know. Newt wasn’t nearly as subtle as he wanted to be. Newt would gesture him closer and Thomas would scramble onto his lap, straddling his lap. His hands would trace the curves of his neck – Newt would hum and incline his head up to offer more places to touch – and along the collar of his shirt.
“What do you have in mind?” He’d ask, looking up from under his eyelashes.
Newt would stare at him with dark eyes, mutter a kiss and then wrap one hand around the back of Thomas’ head. It made it easier to drag him into a kiss. It was rough and bruising, lust filled and passionate. It made Thomas’ heart pound in his chest, made his thoughts cut off sharply, made his eyelids flutter and his cheeks flush. Newt kisses with purpose, as if it’s the first and last thing he wants to do that day. As if this is everything.
It felt like everything.
Newt would nip at Thomas’ bottom lip and he would laugh through a groan. He would return the favour, sucking and flicking his tongue until Newt moaned and his hand flexed at the back of his neck.
“The things I want to do to you,” Newt would mutter and Thomas would grin. He only wished that they had more time to do it.
The kiss would slow then, make Thomas feel weak at the knees and trembling. His hands would have to brace himself, hand pushed into the grass beside Newt’s head so that he could keep from crushing him.
Then everything would darken. The sun seemed to hide, a cold breeze picking up and surrounding them, and Thomas knew that was impossible. He would pull away uncertainly, and all the joy and comfort would be gone from Newt’s face. Thomas’ heart would still be pounding, he’d still be shaking, but for all different reasons.
Newt is pale, sickly, sweating and unsteady. There would be bags under his eyes, which appear to have sunken into his skull, and the soft lips Thomas had once been kissing where now dry and cracked and white.
“Please,” Newt would croak out. “Please.”
“No,” Thomas shakes his head. “I…I can’t. You can’t make me.”
“Please,” Newt begs.
“We can help you. We can find help. We can, we can. I promise,” Thomas insists, but Newt is already shaking his head. He tries to smile but it comes out strained and painful.
“No we won’t,” he states, so sure, “We both know that. I – I don’t want to become – just, please. Shoot me.”
It was the first time that Thomas had noticed the gun in his hand. It was small and shining bright, and it felt familiar to his fingers, as if he had been in possession of it for the whole time. He felt bile rise in his throat and he felt like he was going to throw up. Sometimes he would choke, tears rising in his eyes and blurring his vision, but he never did.
“Newt,” he pleads.
“Please, Tommy, if you’ve ever loved me,” Newt sobs, “Just shoot me. Just shoot me. Please. Please Tommy.”
The dreams always ended the same. Always. He knew it was coming and he could never change it. Could never stop himself. He would wake up shaking and panting, a scream heavy in the air that would bring Teresa rushing to his bedside, asking if it was the same as before. If he was lucky, it would just be lodged in his throat, make him struggle for breath as he cried. And always, always, the last few moments would linger with him.
He would remember the feeling of the gun in his hand when he clicked off the safety, remember the way he hand shook when he pressed the barrel of the weapon to Newt’s head.
He would remember that way that Newt wept his relief, the way his hand curled into the front of Thomas’ shirt.
He would remember the way he cried through his declaration of “I love you”.
He would remember how he pulled the trigger and shot.
