Something that happens a lot with tmr fan content (and why I struggle getting into most ships)٫ particularly fanfic٫ is that it desperately tries to turn these characters' relationships into something they're not.
Like٫ you have extremely interesting character dynamics that are complicated and messy and would just be SO fun to read about/explore but everyone wants the same cookie cutter star crossed lovers where theyre SO in love and fuck every other relationship they have with any other character. At that point what are you really left with? Because do you even actually like the ship if you need to remove all of the substance and pretend other characters don't exist for it to work? Idk I just think it's a shame that the fandom doesn't seem to wanna engage with the actual toxic dynamics in the books while going on and on about "toxic yaoi" and how kinky their au is (and its like. A vampire au)
the other day i showed my friend the line “thomas found himself wondering what newt is thinking. he really liked newt” and even he, who is not into fandom spaces or shipping culture at all, shook his head and said “okay thats kinda crazy”
basically you cannot convince me thomas didnt have a crush on newt.
"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine." — Song of Solomon 1:2
Newt x Fem!Reader Series 𑣲 Chapter 21 𑣲 WC: 3,307
A/N: I wrote this in chunks over a span of three weeks and I didn't proofread it. The fanfic writer/A03 curse lowkey got to me
The vent is more dreadful on the way back. It's probably because you're no longer crawling towards mystery you feel nothing about, but away from an answer that feeds the embers of a rage you'd nearly forgotten.
The metal rings beneath your palms as you shove yourself forward after Aris and Thomas, the confined space pressing in on every side in a way that feels irritating.
Your knee brace catches against a seam in the ductwork that rustles a twinge of pain through your thigh. You barely notice it beneath the frantic rhythm of your heart in your ears.
For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you aren't empty. A wildfire surges through your veins and cascades across every hollow corner grief carved out of your body.
You're angry, not because you're trapped in some shiny white facility full of people who want you dead, but because you were meant to have escaped this: You fought for freedom. You bled for it. You watched people die for it.
Chuck died for this.
Somehow, after everything, after surviving the Maze and the Grievers and impossible odds stacked against you, you ended up right back inside another cage.
The people who put Chuck in that Maze are here: Still breathing and making decisions from behind clean glass windows and locked doors. They don't deserve to be alive.
You should tear this entire place to shreds. You should set every disgustingly sterile hallway on fire and watch this entire place collapse into rubble.
Let it burn.
Let it all burn.
The image won't leave your head: The rows of motionless bodies hooked to machines and harvested like crops. As if these 'resources' were never people to begin with.
The Maze never ended. You're still there. Every door simply opens into another cage. If it were to simply be dumped into another illusion of freedom, why is Chuck not here with you?
It's not your fault.
This is what they wanted. You played right into their hand. They wanted you to fester with guilt for what happened to Chuck, but it was never your fault.
It's theirs.
Let them all burn.
Thomas kicks the vent grate loose and it crashes onto the floor. He practically tumbles out before immediately spinning around to face the others.
"We gotta go!" Thomas shouts. You're just about to push yourself out of the vent when he grabs your forearm, hauling you the rest of the way out. "We gotta go! We gotta go right now!"
His voice ricochets around the dorm, and the moment your feet are steady on the ground, he's already moving. Everyone in the room stiffens upright.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Minho snaps.
"What do you mean 'We gotta go'?" Frypan demands.
Thomas ignores them. So do you. You search the room for something heavy enough to slow a person down: A mattress, or maybe a bunk? Thomas reaches the same conclusion at the same time.
Without a word of discussion, you both grab one side of a metal bunk and drag. The legs screech painfully against the floor, and the others erupt in a series of groans.
"We gotta go!" Thomas shouts again. "We gotta go! They're coming for us!"
"What happened?" Winston asks.
"Paige is alive—"
"Aris, what happened?" Frypan cuts through Thomas frantic babbling.
"Can you just calm down and talk to us?" Minho huffs.
Nobody calms down. Thomas grabs a bedsheet and throws it to you. You catch it automatically and begin wrapping it around the bunk and door handle.
"She's still alive."
"Who?" Newt finally speaks. "Teresa?"
"Ava!"
"Ava?" Minho' sface scrunches. "Who's Ava?"
"Just talk to us!"
The panic continues to build, and Thomas is entirely at a loss for coherent words. That idiot. The room shrinks as you look the sheets and tie another knot.
Chuck's face flashes in your mind. Do you remember how warm his blood was? Do you remember how slick it felt coating your palms? He's gone.
WICKED took him from you. Now, these Slintheads are stumbling around a room, not even aware of how far their heads are shoved up their own asses.
"It's WICKED!" You shout. You've had enough of the relentless questioning. You rotate back on the door. Thomas is already dragging a mattress across the floor for further reinforcement. "It's still WICKED. It's always been WICKED."
"Hey," Strong hands grab your shoulders and you spin back around. Newt's eyes lock onto yours with the kind of intensity that used to make you furious. "What did you see?"
"Newt," Your hands grab his shoulders right back. You've never needed him to listen more than you do right now. "I need you to shut up and just do what I tell you. We need to go."
His eyebrows shoot up, and he clearly doesn't appreciate your tone, as if that's something important to be regarding while your life is on the line.
For a second, you almost think the stupid Shank is going to argue. He always has something to say to you, after all. Instead, his gaze flickers to Thomas. Then, back to you.
"Bloody hell." He mutters under his breath. Then, he nods. The same kind of reluctantly approving nod he gave you before you entered the vents in the first place. "Alright. Alright. Everybody move."
The metal in the tunnels seems ten times hotter now that there's a whole squad of teenage boys crawling through with you. The air is stale and someone's shoe keeps hitting your elbow.
Your knee aches.
Your head aches.
Everything fucking aches.
Your thoughts are a scrambled mess, like someone's dumped every feeling you've ever had into a blender and mixed it into a very unappetizing smoothie.
Eventually, the vent opens up into a fresh hallway, and everyone funnels out, spilling one after another. Aris spins around as soon as Winston comes out behind him.
"Where are you going?" Thomas demands.
"There's something I have to do."
"What?"
"I'll go with him." Winston offers.
Not a soul has the time or energy left to stop Aris from doing whatever the hell he's trying to do. You simply stick among the group, trying to breathe without vomiting.
When did you become so weak?
Which version of you stands here now?
Are you still the same girl who charged into the Maze and survived a night being chased down by a Griever, or are you the hollow thing that's spent days staring at the ceiling, wishing she were dead?
Does it matter which version you are? Ultimately, you're still here, right now, escaping a high security facility with no plans and too much adrenaline. Save the identity crisis for later.
You round a corner, and almost immediately collide with a beautiful woman in a pristine, white lab coat. She freezes. Everyone freezes. The woman blinks at the bunch of teenagers who've poured into the hallway.
"...What are you kids doing out?" The question barely leaves her mouth before red lights suddenly flash overhead. Alarms begin screaming through the facility.
You look at Thomas.
Thomas looks at you.
You look at Newt.
Newt looks at you.
Then, Thomas launches himself at her.
He tackles her around the waist, and the woman lets out a startled shriek. Within a moment, she's restrained with makeshift handcuffs and being dragged along with the rest of the group.
Hallways blur. Alarms blare overhead. As you run, your eyes keep drifting toward Newt. Towards his limp, and every uneven step that leaves him a hitch behind.
You still remember him before: Before the shattered leg. When he was a Runner. He was so fast and fearless. Someone you could never reach from miles beneath his pedestal.
You almost lost him the day he jumped. His clothes were soaked in his own blood, and the angle of his leg was sickening. Chuck is gone. That hasn't changed, and it never will, but there are still people you have left to lose.
Thomas is one of them. He's not just another Glader. He feels like a twin separated at birth. Like you're two idiots sharing the same braincell. Half the time, you don't even need to exchange words anymore. You just know what he's thinking.
Frypan too. He's the same guy who used to yell at you for burning breakfast, but you miss those mornings more than you'd ever like to admit.
There's also Minho. His respect is monumental. He doesn't just hand out admiration. He makes people earn it. Yet, somehow, you of all people earned it, and you don't want to lose it.
Then there's Newt. Of everyone, he's most likely to pull you aside and yell at you for doing something stupid. He's the biggest pain in the ass you've ever encountered, but the world without him would cease to turn.
Gross.
That sounds romantic.
"Freeze!"
A shout echoes down the hallway and everyone jerks to a halt. A guard stands at the far end, large, black shotgun-looking weapon raised with terrifying clarity.
Newt reacts quicker than you do, yanking you backward just as a sound crackles through the air. A blue, electrical projectile zips past where your head had been.
"Back!" Newt shoves you around the corner as another shot slams into the wall and sparks fly. Minho still stands just beyond the corner, eyes flickering with a bad idea. "Minho! What the hell are you doing?"
The guard fires again, and Minho runs: Not away, but toward him. A gasp leaves your lips before you can compose yourself. Minho sprints full speed, then jumps.
His knee drives into the guard's chest. The sound of the impact is nauseating as they both slam into the wall. The guard crumples, out cold.
"Holy Shuck." You stare, dumbfounded. Minho straightens and brushes imaginary dust off his shoulder, fully aware of how cool it was to launch himself through the air and knock a fully grown man unconscious. A laugh of admiration and disbelief escapes you.
It was kind of hot.
"Shit, Minho." Newt murmurs, equally in awe.
Thomas crosses the hallway, stooping to retrieve the strange weapon from where it'd clattered across the floor. He turns it over with uncertain hands before pressing the barrel firmly between the shoulder blades of the scientist you've been dragging along ever since she made the unfortunate mistake of standing in the wrong hallway at the wrong time.
Poor woman. She just had to witness some insane teenage escapee launch himself knee first into one of her coworkers like a human cannonball.
Corridors bleed together until it begins to feel like you're running along the same hallway over and over again. Eventually, the scientist throws open a pair of medical doors.
Doctors spin around and nurses shriek. Rows upon rows of medical cots stretch across the room beneath harsh white lights. Your eyes dart from face to face, weaving between curtain hidden beds as quickly as your knee will allow.
"Teresa?" You call.
You find nothing. Another cot, another stranger. Another unfamiliar face. Guilt curls in your lungs. You've been so consumed in your own grief that you'd nearly forgotten she was somewhere in this place too.
It's all horribly unfair. She'd sat beside you after the showers, and spoke so gently to you when you could barely look anyone in the eyes. She offered patience, only to receive nothing in return.
"Found her!" Thomas' voice slices through the room, and relief floods your veins. You barely have time to look her over before instinct drags your attention elsewhere.
There's movement in the window. You step toward it and peer through the narrow pane of reinforced glass. Down the hall strides Janson, followed by half a dozen guards.
"Guys!" You stumble back slightly, searching the room for another exit. "They're coming— Newt!" You point. "The table!" His eyes flick to the heavy table near the wall.
He moves with understanding. The table screeches loudly against the floor before he heaves it onto its side with a grunt. You barely throw yourself backward before the steel slab slams into the doorway. The impact shakes the walls.
You can scold him for that later.
"Everyone back! Get back! Get back!" Minho barks. Everyone stumbles backward. Minho plants his feet squarely between the barricaded door and the rest of you, stolen weapon aimed unwaveringly at the door as the metal table groans against impact. "We really gotta get out of here!"
A loud bang echoes through the room as a guard tests the door again, and the barricade shudders. You're backing away when an arm hooks around your waist.
Newt pulls you against his chest, one hand firm against your ribs as he guides you backward with the rest of the group. The gesture is so natural, it's almost startling.
Another slam shakes the room. Your eyes dart wildly for another exit. The doors are blocked. The walls are solid. The glass of the observation window—
Glass.
You wrench yourself free from Newt's protective grasp before he can ask what you're doing, snatching up the nearest steel chair. Your knee protests as you plant your feet and swing with everything you've got. The chair rattles against the glass, producing nothing. Not even a crack.
"Shuck! Help me with this!" You yell. Thomas grabs a chair of his own. Together, you both swing, and a spiderweb fractures across the window. With one more synchronized hit, the entire pane bursts in a glittering avalanche of shards cascading into the room beyond.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Thomas climbs through first, helping Teresa over the broken frame. Cute. Frypan follows. Then Minho motions Newt through. He lands lightly on the opposite side while you attempt to vault the window, knee sending an ache through your thigh before you can follow through.
Newt turns immediately, catching a struggle you'd rather die than admit. He doesn't shout, scold, or rush. Instead, he opens his arms to you.
You make another attempt to climb through, your brace catching against the remnants of sharp shards. Your balance disappears. Fortunately, there's a pair of arms to catch you before you meet the floor.
He caught you.
You'll soon come to find that Newt will always catch you.
He steadies you, waiting until you're both firm on your feet to let go. Your eyes snap back toward the other room. Minho hasn't moved, weapon still trained on the door.
"Minho!" You shout, and he glances over. "Toss!" Without much hesitation, he hurls the gun through the shattered window. You catch it awkwardly against your shoulder, fumbling a moment before your fingers find grip. The table barricade finally gives way and the door flies inward as guards charge through. "Thomas, move!"
Thomas dives aside, and you squeeze the trigger. Blue light erupts from the barrel and a guard stiffens mid-step before collapsing in a heap on the floor.
You blink and lower the weapon slowly. Your aim was surprisingly perfect. When you look to the side, Newt is watching you with furrowed brows and parted lips. Seemingly, he's surprised too.
"Come on!" Thomas shouts. "Let's move!"
You run.
Hallway after hallway twists into another until the facility begins to resemble the Maze. Except, at least the Maze had sunlight and ivy. This place is too sterile for how dirty it truly is.
The corridor suddenly expands into something comparable to a wide garage door. Just beyond is the hangar where you'd first arrived a lifetime ago.
Thomas sprints ahead, digging the stolen keycard from his pocket. He swipes. The reader flashes red. He swipes again. Once again, a bright red refuses him.
"Thomas!" Janson's voice echoes through the cavernous room. You turn to find him walking toward you with confidence and an entire squad of guards fanning out behind him.
"Open this door, Janson!" Thomas grits as he snatches the shotgun from your hands and raises it toward Janson's chest. The man doesn't flinch.
"You really don't want me to."
"Open the damn door!"
While Thomas keeps every eye fixed on him, as he somehow always manages to do, you rush to the control panel. There has to be something. Anything.
You swipe the keycard again. You mash a series of buttons. Your trembling fingers fumble across the keypad, trying any combination your mind can conjure.
"Listen to me." Janson's voice is eerily calm. "I'm trying to save your life." You keep pushing buttons. "The Maze is one thing, but you kids wouldn't last one day out in the Scorch. If the elements won't kill you, the Cranks will." Another combination, another denial. "Thomas, you have to believe me. I only want what's best for you."
"Yeah, let me guess, WICKED is good?"
Janson pauses.
"...You're not getting through that door, Thomas."
As if serving a big 'fuck you' from the universe, the keypad suddenly flashes green. The lock releases and the heavy door raises open to reveal Aris and Winston standing on the other side.
"Come on!" Frypan shouts, the first one to step through the threshold. You sprint through the doorway before immediately spinning around, because Thomas is still inside.
Blue light flashes through the hangar until the weapon clicks with an empty sound. He drops it and runs just as the blast door begins slowly closing.
"Thomas!" You scream. "Hurry!"
Everyone joins in, shouting as the distance between Thomas and the group closes in tandem with the door and the ground. He dives and slides beneath the narrowing gap. The door slams shut barely a second after his head clears.
Holy fuck.
His head almost got squashed like a watermelon in a hydrolic press.
Your eyes land on a heavy battery sitting atop a nearby maintenance shelf. You limp to it, grabbing it with both hands. It's weighty enough to make your arms shake.
With one swing, the battery smashes into the control panel and sparks explode against shattered plastic. The keypad dies, and hopefully, it's enough to keep them busy.
Through a horizontal window, that piece-of-shit Janson stares, frustration written plainly on his face. You lift your hand and extend a single finger.
You hear a scoff, and turn to see that Thomas is in the exact same position, flipping off Janson as well. You both lower your hands in perfect unison.
"You pair are bloody uncanny." Newt shakes his head. He pats your shoulder as he passes. "C'mon. Let's get out of here."
The massive hangar doors whine as they begin sliding apart. Sunlight doesn't greet you. Neither does freedom. A wall of sand roars outside, swallowing the world whole.
You stop.
You've never seen anything like this. Where will you go? Will you simply wander aimlessly in the howling desert? The old you would've crossed into the open world without hesitation.
Do you still have what it takes?
A warm hand slips into yours. You look, and beside you, stands Newt, facing the sands. His fingers thread carefully between yours. He doesn't even glance your way.
Ew.
Ew?
His palm is rough and comforting at the same time. It's the softest thing you've felt since that awful heat of Chuck's blood soaking through your hands.
Not ew.
Not ew?
You don't let go. You follow him, and it feels different than following Thomas. Thomas runs towards the impossible because you share the same reckless heart. You understand each other's hope before either of you speaks it aloud.
Following Newt feels nothing like that. It feels less like chasing something and more like trusting that, somehow, this violent world won't tear you from your feet,
But you hate him.
Yeah.
You still hate him.
You hate him and his stupid hand, which leads you through the cold, foreign desert night, putting more and more distance between you and the doubt that's plagued you in this haunting place.
