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kareofbears · 1 month

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a fragile line, chapter 1/3

Newt and Thomas always had something going on—even in the Maze, Gally knew right away. But never did he think it would turn into something like this; a devotion fermented. A reverence that made the chapel look blasphemous in comparison.

—

Or, as they infiltrate WICKED, Gally notices the shift between Newt and Thomas.

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The worst day of his life was when Gally realized he still fucking cares.

He always cared. Probably cared too damn much, back in the Maze. Cared so much it tore them all apart.

They had lost everything in the span of days. Crops burned, walls torn down, weapons picked up only to be dropped, dripping in blood. Gally tried telling everyone to stop breaking the rules, but nobody listened, and people died. Boys, his boys, died. And he tried so hard to save as many of them as possible, took that burden on himself, tarnished his palms with invisible callouses from the effort of forcibly keeping them all together. There's nothing worse than having the hands that helped kids out of the Box be the same ones to etch their names off the wall.

Gally was younger, then. It feels like years have passed even if it's only been months since it all went down. He was struck with terror, confused, determined to find answers, and most of all, he was angry. Angry with grief, angry at the situation, angry at change. Of course, nobody pissed him off more than the Greenie, sauntering around and making big speeches like he built the damn Glade himself. And guess what—Gally was right about that, too.

But what really got to him, what really made his nerves light up with fury and sink deep into his bones was that nobody listened to him about the Greenie. Yeah, Gally can see now that he was a massive dick back then, but all of his worries were valid. Thomas was dangerous. Thomas was working with WICKED. Thomas did lead people to dangerous situations without thinking things through or considering the consequences. And nobody questioned that, because they were making progress on the Maze for the first time ever.

It's not something he'll ever say out loud, but damn the Maze. Damn freedom. What the hell is the point of fighting your way out when you see the bodies lined up behind you? What's the price of escape? Too high. It would always be too high for him.

When they left him there, bleeding out on the floor of some busted up WICKED lab with a meter-long spear sticking out of his chest—Minho did always have one hell of a throw—Gally cursed every single one of them. Croaked out their names with whatever breath was left in his lungs, lips tracing the syllables in a haze of red and hate. Was still mouthing it when Lawrence's guys found him.

Months later, slouched on top of a combat vehicle for a routine trip of the Last City's outskirts, he sees them.

They looked like shit. Clothes that have been through the ringer, hair matted with grime, every inch of their skin covered in soot and who-the-hell-knows what, and eyes blazing with something only anguish from the Scorch and running from WICKED can bring to someone.

He wanted so badly for that same, familiar hurt to rise. That thorn on his side that he convinced himself would never leave, the phantom spear in his chest to make itself known. He waits for the anger to rear its ugly head again, like it always has. The need to feel hate.

It doesn't come. What does come, unfortunately, is knee-buckling relief.

They're alive.

After all this time, even after they left him behind to rot, they're Gladers. They're boys. They're Gally's boys, first and foremost. He protects his own until his last breath. For better or for worse, he still gives a damn about these guys.

If he's going to care, he's going to do it properly this time. And with these shanks? This is going to suck. It's going to be hell. But Gally doesn't do things in halves.

—

“Words?”

“Circulation. Novel. Badger.”

Thomas nods, taking a bite of his apple as he writes into that beaten up notebook of his. “Looks good today, too,” he says approvingly between chews. "And you're not—"

"I’m fine. Don't feel any worse than I did twelve hours ago," Newt cuts in, amused. "I feel bloody sparkling, Tommy. What's the next set?"

Gally watches as Thomas continues writing, brows furrowed in concentration. The three of them are sitting underneath the awning of the chapel's entrance, shielding themselves from the morning sun's abnormally hot rays, making last-minute preparations for when they head into the Last City tonight. Frankly, he was glad for it. Already they've lingered for too long, the paranoia of timing itching at his skin.

"Next words are 'narrow, switch, illusion,'" Thomas replies, closing his book shut. "Don't forget."

"I'll try my best," Newt says drily. "Can we move to actual business now, doctor?"

Thomas leans over and knocks on the wooden door, hard, taking another bite of his apple. "Brenda. Get out here."

Immediately, the door swings open and she peeks her head out, bob bouncing as she squints. "Done flirting?"

"Never," Newt says easily, scooching over so she has room to sit. "Lucky us, the doc cleared me to join the grown-up conversation."

Part of the last-minute preparations, apparently, is this. The Greenie playing Medjack and clearing Newt for a clean bill of health every twelve hours with little memory tests.

It's easy to make fun of, which Newt never hesitates to do. But when Gally first saw them doing it, saw Thomas' stone-faced expression as he insists on checking Newt every time, he's reassured, just a little. He still has his reservations towards the Greenie, probably always will, but if there's one thing they can both agree on, is that Newt's health isn't something to fuck around with.

Brenda flops down between him and Newt, giving Newt a side-hug and raises her fist towards Gally. Unhesitatingly, he bumps it with his own.

"Okay," Thomas swallows, passing the fruit to Newt, who takes his own bite in turn. Despite fatigue prevalent in his posture, Thomas’ voice is sure. "We're heading out tonight. The objectives are saving Minho, busting out twenty-eight Immunes, and taking the serum from the vault. We're taking the tunnels, like we did the first time." The way he's reciting the plan feels clinical, worn out, the same way sharp rock smooths down after years of being under rough waters. "Brenda's getting the bus for the kids with Fry's help—"

"Why isn't Fry here?" Gally interrupts.

"He's scavenging the place for something to mark the road with." Thomas slumps against the pillar like it was the only thing holding him up, before straightening again. At Gally's nod, he continues. "Newt, Gally and I are going in with Teresa to the main building. Gally and I will take point, Newt stays a few steps behind us as backup."

"Just a few?" Newt clarifies, coughing a little before biting into the apple.

"Just a few."

Newt’s teeth sink into the core, a piece falling with a loud crunch. There's still a hint of bruising still smudged just above his cheekbone; the only remnants of the mysterious black eye that appeared before they all had dinner a few days ago.

"Just a quick chat with Tommy," Newt answered when Gally raised a brow at him then. "Little trouble in paradise, just had to let out some steam, is all. You know how we are."

The thing is, Gally doesn't.

Individually, the two of them are pretty much the same. A lot happened in six months, and he'd be a liar if he said he's the same shank that was tearing his voice out in the Glade. Thomas is impossibly more difficult now, but he always was. At his core, though, he's still the brave, overly-observant idiot he pulled out of the Box. Newt's still the embodiment of wit, the patron fucking saint of composure, even if that's starting to chip away because of the Flare, judging by Thomas' twin bruise on his jaw.

But the two of them? As a unit? Gally has no idea who these bastards are.

It's as if the universe took a pinch of Thomas and a pinch of Newt, threw it in a barrel, and topped it with a gallon of deranged before stirring. A mixture of whatever the hell the two of them are now. It's something Gally doesn't want to put much thought into, because something about the two of them feels almost threatening. Warning bells, the presence of danger when something involves the two of them.

Even asking Brenda about it, once, didn't help clear things up. "Those two? The only thing I get about them is that you should just get out of the way before you do something stupid."

"What, you make a bad comment or something?"

"Kissed Thomas." A pause. "Yeah. Don't ask. Newt laughed it off but Thomas wouldn’t speak to me for days."

Gally refocuses back on the meeting, as Thomas continues. "—into Sub-Level 3. Get the serum, give it to Newt right then and there. Get the kids out, meet with Brenda, get picked up by Fry." He pauses before nodding, as if he were confirming his own plan with himself. That, paired with his deep eyebags, Gally has to wonder if this guy's slept at all since they interrogated Teresa a few days ago. "Good that?"

Two good thats and one sounds good. Looks like Brenda never picked up the Glader lingo.

"Okay. Be back by sundown. We leave at nine." Thomas looks over them, voicd curt. “Don’t be late.”

"What Tommy means to say," Newt chides. "Is do what you need to do. Get some rest, pack what you need. Take care of yourselves, because who knows when we'll get free time again, yeah? Go on, now." Newt turns to Thomas. "Dick," he says, but it comes out oddly affectionate. "Never did pick up on niceties, did you?"

Thomas shrugs. "Figured they'd appreciate efficiency."

Gally gets on his feet, fully intending to slink away somewhere and get in the mindset for the infiltration tonight when he hears Thomas call out: "Stick around, Gally." A mild thump sounds out, like someone getting swatted. "...Please."

He doesn't repress a sigh, but doesn't complain—he has a thing or two to say, anyway.

They wait for Brenda and Newt to leave. Gally doesn't let him have the first word. "You look like shit," he says bluntly. "You can't go in there when you look like you can barely stay on your feet."

Thomas shoots him a glare but doesn't bother getting up from where he's sitting. "I'll be fine." Gally keeps staring, and Thomas visibly deflates, curling in on himself a little. "I'll be fine after we talk."

"Okay." Gally crosses his arms and waits. "Anytime, Greenie."

He doesn't answer, and Gally has the urge to tell him to just spit it out, but then Thomas' expression turns solemn. "Be honest with me."

"I don't think I have it in me to bother lying to you, man."

"Would you choose Newt over me?"

The question stuns Gally to silence. "Feeling insecure?" he asks instead of answering.

Thomas ignores the jab. "You would, right?" he insists, eyes intense. "You must. He has three years over me. You built the Glade together, one of the originals. You respected him even when he disagreed with you during Gatherings, I remember. You and I, we were never close. Got on each other's nerves a lot." He tilts his head, considering. "Still do."

Gally hesitates, honesty catching him off guard. "Shit, Greenie," he sighs, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it before. They’ve made strides, him and Thomas. They’re not as cut-throat with each other like they were before, as much as Thomas tried to reignite the feud between them. Is it good? Fuck no, but it’s better than before.

Nonetheless, it’s nothing on the affinity that Gally had towards Newt.

Eventually, he nods. "Yeah. If it came down to it and I had no other choice, I would choose Newt over you."

He’s not surprised when Thomas relaxes, tension easing from his frame. "Good," he breathes out, flopping down to the hot concrete and closing his eyes. "So if it came down to it, you'd make sure Newt would get out of there, even if it killed me?"

Gally gives him a hard look. “You planning on dying out there?”

“I’m planning on Newt coming back alive.” When Thomas opens his eyes slowly, gaze sliding to him, his expression is almost unbearably vulnerable. "Please," Thomas says quietly, and he almost doesn't hear it. "Please."

"You asked me to be honest." A hum sounds out in reply. "I think if I got Newt out of there, but you didn't make it, there would be nothing left of Newt to save."

Thomas frowns. "Yeah," he agrees, a little too easily. "But he'd be alive."

—

Gally peers over Newt's shoulder, standing on his tiptoes a little to get a better view. "You choose which one you're wearing yet?"

"Red one, I think." Holding up the WICKED jumpsuits, he watches as Newt's eyes jump between the three choices. "I like a good pop of color."

"Well, I don't." Gripping Newt's shoulder, he grabs the plain gray jumpsuit, and pauses briefly when Newt tenses underneath his touch. "I'll take the boring one."

"Doing us all a favor, mate."

Gally glances at Newt—who gives him a mild, withdrawn smile—before turning his attention back down to the jumpsuit. Tracing it with his fingers, he studies it, unseeing. A sick sense of premonition tingling down his spine.

"Well," Newt says, "I'm gonna—" he jerks his head to the door, clearing his throat, and Gally really, really considers letting him get away with it. But he can't, not when they're leaving in a few hours. Not when the stakes are so high. Newt, of all things, can’t be considered a variable. But it might be too late.

"Newt," he calls, still directing his gaze at the jumpsuit in his hands. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

He stops in his tracks, turned away from Gally.

Dread grows in his stomach. Silence reigns for a long moment.

"No," he admits, finally. "But Tommy seems to trust you, so." Facing Gally, his smile, sickeningly foreign and apprehensive, is being directed right at Gally. "You must be a half-decent guy."

Gally laughs, because he knows Newt would want him to and he doesn't know how else to react. "Now I really know your memory's fucked." Hopping on top of a crate, Gally lets the humor drop from his voice, fist tight around the fabric in his hands. "How bad is it?"

That earns him a scowl, harsh and abrupt. "How the hell am I supposed to know the bloody details? I don't fucking remember."

"Calm," Gally placates. He has to constantly remind himself that, despite the fact that he hides it so well, Newt is sick. "Come on, man, we need to talk about this. You remember Thomas?"

Like a smothered flame, the fight immediately burns out of Newt. Carefully, he sits on the ground in front of Gally, crossing his legs. Gally wonders why Newt wouldn't just sit beside him when he remembers that he probably wouldn't want to sit next to a complete stranger. It stung, a little. "Yeah, I remember him."

"Does he know about this?"

"Yeah."

Gally narrows his eyes. "Really?"

"Yes," he repeats, exasperated. "You really think I can hide anything from that Tommy bastard? Especially about me and my—" he gestures at his head, circling a finger around his temple lazily. "I tried, mate, and that didn't work out for the two of us."

"Gally."

"What?"

"Stop calling me 'mate.' It's Gally. Just ask next time."

Newt scrunches his brows in concentration. "Gally," he stretches out, like he's hoping muscle memory of the name will kick in, a faint recognition flashing in his eyes. "It's kind of ringing a bell, now."

"Hope it's not alarm bells," Gally huffs. "How does the memory loss work? Are you going to be okay for tonight?"

"Not sure, it's kind of a new development. Sometimes I forget small details like what I ate for breakfast, and sometimes I forget you exist. Tommy's been trying to keep track of the progress with the little tests, but not sure that's doing a whole lot. Thinking that he's just obsessing over my health, like usual. As for tonight," he shrugs. "I have to be okay, don't I?"

"Newt."

"Gally," he groans out, matching Gally's tone. Looks like the memories are back; a quick recovery, for now. "I don't have a bloody choice. Besides, it's not that bad yet. It usually happens for a few minutes at a time and then I'm right as rain. So don't bother convincing me—"

"And I won't." During Gatherings, arguments with Newt had always been a losing battle, especially when the Greenie was involved somehow. Gally can count on one hand the times he's disagreed with Newt—this isn't one of them. "We need you out there," he says truthfully.

"Thanks," Newt says, eyes crinkling in relief, before morphing into a thoughtful expression. "Did Tommy say anything to you?"

Gally was shaking his head before Newt even finished. "Nope," he jumps down from the crate and walks out. "Not taking anymore bodyguard requests from anyone."

“Gally.”

Gally flips him off without turning around, mouth twisted unhappily. It’s a steep learning curve, but he thinks he’s starting to get it. Newt and Thomas are an old book that hasn’t been opened in years—you can’t separate the pages without risking both being torn in half. But what he wishes they knew is that he doesn’t want to have to choose between the two of them. He doesn’t like choosing lives, weighing the risks of success and death. There’s nothing more he wants than to leave that mindset back in the Maze. Especially between these two; they’re finally back in his life and they immediately get to talking about how willing they are to martyr themselves. Like they don’t realize how much this fucks with Gally’s head.

Just as the door is about to close, he hears Newt sigh, tired and frustrated. “Shit.”

—

"Punctual," is how Thomas greets him when he gets there ten minutes before the meeting time. He looks impossibly worse. Shoulders drooping and eye bags bordering on purple, he looks like he’s only standing on his feet through rage alone, as if it is only his heartache that propels him forward.

By now, the sun had long since set, replaced by a huge full moon that they ignored. They're both dressed in WICKED uniforms, masks in hand. He may not see it, but he knows both of them have weapons laced and hidden throughout their entire body like a second skin, like suits that he sees adults wear in the city. It flickers in his mind, sometimes, that in a normal life, they’d all still be too young to wear suits.

Gally snorts. "While you shanks were eating sand in the Scorch, I was in the military the whole time. Punctual made sure my ass didn't get beat."

Thomas' expression doesn't so much as twitch. "Makes sense," he says, effectively ending the conversation. Not that he minded. Greenie was a real stick in the mud nowadays. He almost prefers the hundreds of questions that spewed out of his mouth over the contemplative, fuming silence that's associated with Thomas nowadays.

“You always gonna be this much of an asshole?” Gally prods, because there’s time to waste and he’s never been afraid to ruin Thomas’ day.

“Well,” he replies, tone perfectly level. “By the end of tonight, I’ll either be the most pleasant, cheerful, carefree shank you’ve ever met—“ he lolls his head towards Gally, eyes dead. “Or I’ll be begging you to kill me.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond. Footsteps, paired with the heavy thumps that only someone wearing a WICKED uniform can bring, paired with a throaty cough. "You alright, Tommy?"

The change was instant; it’s as if dawn broke at 8:56 pm. Thomas, the miserable, angry, short-fused Greenie, splits a grin brighter than the sun. A happiness sharp and abrupt and covetous that it felt like a weapon in its own right, an ax to grind so cutting that it makes the guns and knives strapped to their bodies feel like childrens’ toys. Ridiculously, Gally has the urge to take a step back out of its range.

“Could be better,” Thomas replies, reaching for Newt’s hand. One thing he’s grateful for is that these two always keep the PDA to a minimum. Small mercies. “Brenda?”

“Hauling our lovely Teresa over.”

As if on cue, the chapel doors barge open, Teresa and Brenda stepping out. If it weren’t for the sunken, lifeless expression plastered on Teresa’s face, they might have looked like two friends in a different life.

“Oh, and here you are,” Newt slips Thomas a folded piece of paper, clearing his throat. “Keep it somewhere safe.”

“What’s that?” Gally asks.

“Insurance. I’m supposed to give it to him, in case he—“ Thomas gestures vaguely, still unable to vocalize Newt’s sickness. There’s an emotion Gally can’t place scattered on his features. “Can I read it?”

“Sure,” Newt shrugs. “Nothing you don’t already know.”

He unfolds the paper, and it was quiet as they watched him read it. When he finishes, he looks up slowly. For some reason, Thomas looks overwhelmed.

New rolls his eyes. “I told you, it’s nothing you don’t already know.”

“Yeah, but still. It’s in writing.” With a care he isn’t used to associating with Thomas, he tucks the paper deep into his breast pocket. "Can I keep this?"

"No, that’s for me." Newt pauses, considering. "I'll write you your own letter, maybe."

Gally’s barely listening to them, much more interested in how Teresa looks like she just got her soul sucked out of her. “What’s wrong with her?” he asks Brenda.

“Beats me. Ever since the interrogation, she’s been out of it.” Cutting a glance at Thomas, “You have something to do with that?”

“You already know everything I did during the interrogation,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Haven’t even talked to her since then.”

Somehow, Teresa looks even more dejected after hearing that. An unforeseen benefit; she’s easier to handle this way. Gally catches Newt’s glaring at her, a mildly amused look etched into his eyes, and wonders how much is unforseen and how much is just Newt.

Turning his attention back to Brenda, he double checks his belt. Pistol, knife, dagger, radio, hacksaws, extra rounds. “Ready?”

Teresa’s head shoots up and blinks, suddenly alarmed. “Brenda’s coming?”

“Look who’s back from the dead,” Newt taunts, and Thomas frowns at him slightly. “You’re a bouncer now, are you? Of course Brenda’s bloody coming.”

“But isn’t she—?” Her gaze drops down to Brenda’s shin, where the Flare used to be etched. “She’s not getting treatment, right? Otherwise Newt would—“

Thomas sighs loudly, not bothering to look in her direction. “We need to go. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Where is she getting her serum?”

Gally looks at her like she’s lost it. “Do you think if we had any serum, we wouldn’t shoot that shit straight into Newt?”

Newt blows out a breath, eye twitching, and a tingle of premonition tingles along Gally’s nape. “Can we get a move on now? This girl’s just wasting our time. Don’t we have something better to do?”

Thomas gives him another long, long look. “Okay,” he concedes. “Let’s head out.”

Teresa opens her mouth, but Gally grips her wrist. “Haven’t you learned to just keep quiet?” he hisses, the question more genuine than he intended. It’s a wonder she’s still alive. “It’s a simple thing. Shut up. Get us in. And maybe Tom will hate you less.”

The venom in her stare could rival a Griever’s, but at least she doesn’t complain when they start walking.

—

The tunnel sucks. It always does.

It has a perpetual stickiness that seems to permeate into the aged bricks in the wall, a natural humidity that makes the heavy stink of a sewer rise and settle onto their clothes like a snowfall that Gally has only ever read about and has lost all hope of seeing in the sun-scorched world. With every step, an unnamable liquid would make their shoes squelch with a viscosity he doesn’t even want to think about; yet another thing to ignore if he wants to keep it together. It’s dimly lit, slippery, a nasty piece of work. The sound is strangely amplified there in a way he knows gives all of them hives—loud sounds get you attention. Attention gets you killed. Just how it works nowadays.

Thomas and Newt climb down first, then Teresa. Brenda gives him a dubious look, one foot on the ladder’s ring.

“What?”

Her tone is forcibly nonchalant. “Have a thing against going underground.” In the corner of his eye, he sees her twist her ankle this way and that. “You sure there’s nothing dangerous down there?”

Gally cracks a grin. “If you’re worried about Cranks, I think there’s technically one down there.” It’s the kind of joke that would get his teeth knocked out if he told it to Thomas, but it pulls a startled huff out of Brenda.

“Guess so.” Scraping something like a smile, she descends, and he follows her, closing the trap door with a thud.

Hopping down the rest of the way, his boots hit the ground with a splash. “Straight ahead,” he tells them, blindly reaching for the lever and pulling it up with some effort. Lights flicker on, bulb by bulb, as the tunnel stretches on for what seems like miles. “Let’s make quick work of this place.”

Thomas and Newt set the pace, a brisk walk that reminds Gally that Thomas was a Runner and Newt would still be one, in another life. Gally studies Newt’s leg from behind, nodding to himself when there’s only the barest stutter in his gait. He must have worked hard to train it up to where it is now.

��Anyone ever told you that you’re not as good at being a jackass as you think you are?” Brenda whispers beside him, soft enough that the sound doesn’t bounce against the tunnel walls.

Gally bristles. “No, actually, they tell me I’m worse than they remember.”

A scoff, then, loudly: “There’s only room for one brooding jerk in this group, and I don’t know if you can rip it from the lovestruck fools.”

“I heard that,” Thomas calls back, annoyed.

Brenda chuckles, before dropping her voice. “Listen, Gally. This tough guy act? It’s not doing anyone any favors. You don’t realize how quickly—” she falters. “How quickly it can go away.”

Irritation rises in him. “It’s not an act,” he rebukes, fighting to speak softly. “It’s more than that. You don’t think I know about loss? Give me a break.” He gestures to himself before Thomas and Newt, “What do you even know about this? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, it’s not really any of your damn business.”

“I’m the one who watched them for six whole months while you were gone,” she reminds him. “It’s not the Maze, but the Scorch is its own hell. It changes people, it changes priorities. And it’s also when Newt and Thomas became Newt and Thomas.”

He scrubs his face roughly. “And?” he prompts, because saying Who fucking cares? is probably rude.

“You can probably tell that they’re—” her lip twitches. “A little off.”

“Batshit insane?” he offers.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “And with how they trip over themselves to stare at each other, all I’m saying is that it’s nice that someone out there is watching where they’re going. Make sure their footing is alright.”

He gives her an incredulous look. “And that’s me?”

Brenda shrugs. “You and me. We can take shifts.”

Gally continues staring at her before throwing caution to the wind. “You still in love with him or something?”

It’s Brenda’s turn to be irritated. “Can’t you just accept the fact that some people aren’t ashamed to look out for their friends? Why do you have to make it weird?”

“Can’t you believe the fact that I’ve already tried looking out for my friends before and ended up with a stick in my chest?” His tone is more piercing than he wanted it to be.

She falls silent, and they walk for a few minutes with only the sound of their shoes slushing in sewer water and the muffled staccato of Newt and Thomas whispering with one another.

“I heard about that,” she says eventually. “It sounded deserved, if I’m being honest.”

Gally grunts, because she’s right and he doesn’t want to grace her with acknowledgement.

Brenda’s mouth quirks. “Who’s the sore loser now?”

Despite his best efforts, he cracks a smile. “Whatever.” And then, begrudgingly, “Yeah. It was deserved. But it was also—“

“Complicated?” Brenda finishes. “Look, man. We can grill those two all you want, but one thing about them is that they keep their shit simple and clean. There’s one priority: each other. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that. What you did is in the past, but you’re here for them now. Your hands are full enough as it is, so maybe—” she shrugs. “Try letting stuff go?”

There’s nothing to let go, he wants to retort.

I already let it go, he fixes.

I thought I let go already, he tries again.

I don’t think I’m allowed to let go, is what he actually wants to say.

A quiet, trilling voice, one Gally almost forgot about, made itself known. “You held them too tightly before.” Teresa mutters, eyes downcast. “So now you don’t even want to touch them now. Right?”

Bitterness coats his throat. “You, of all people,” he says, emotionless. “Don’t get to speak to me about that.”

He shoulders past Teresa, ignoring her. “I’ll go ahead and take the first shift,” he tells Brenda.

“That’s the Gally I’ve heard about.”

He scoffs without heat and has to jog to catch up to Thomas and Newt when he hears something that makes him stop in his tracks, liquid sloshing at his shin. Dread, cold and heavy, settles in his stomach.

“Narrow, beatle—no, it’s not beatle,” Newt’s back is to him, shoulders pulled in tight and fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Narrow, hoax…”

“Newt,” Thomas speaks quietly.

“No, Tommy, just give me a minute. I swear I’ve got it.” Newt takes a deep breath. “The words are narrow, insight—fuck.”

“They’re just words,” Thomas tries mildly, but even in the poor lighting, Gally can see how his hands tremble. “Nothing more to it. It’s a stupid thing I made up, anyway.”

“It’s not stupid,” Newt hisses. “It was bloody important to you twelve hours ago, wasn’t it? Don’t go changing the rules on me now.”

Thomas places a hand on Newt’s chest lightly but firm. Taking a deep breath, movements exaggerated, shoulder rising and falling, Thomas holds eye contact with Newt. In the next set of breaths, Newt joins him; reluctantly at first, until the tension in his shoulders gradually relaxes, their chests rising and falling in time with each other.

“We good here?” Gally interrupts quietly.

Newt turns to him, meditative state seemingly broken, and for a second, he thought that Newt was going to have that distant expression on his face again, the one that says he doesn’t recognize Gally anymore. Expects to be met with gritted teeth and wild eyes and black veins. Gally readies himself. Anger, he can work with.

But Newt lets out a sharp breath and casts his eyes to the ceiling, visibly deflating. “We’re good here,” he sighs, and when he glances back down, his expression is sheepish. “Sorry.”

Gally nods, eyes flickering to Thomas, who reveals nothing.

“Come on,” Gally says, brushing past Newt, gently squeezing his shoulder. “Tunnel’s turning soon.”

—

The trickiest part of their journey into the city was always going to be outrunning the train.

“There’s too many of us to go all at once,” Gally announces, all of them hunched in a cramped tunnel with jagged rocks pressed against their palms. He speaks with a raised voice, the train whooshing loudly, the lights rhythmically lighting up their faces like search lights. “We should split this up into two runs.”

He studies each person and doesn’t hide a grimace. The dramatics of how to split this group of shanks is annoyingly complicated. “Me, Brenda, Newt. Greenie, Teresa. Sound good?”

Thomas opens his mouth, and Gally gives him an unimpressed look. “What is it now?”

“...Nothing.”

“Great.” Gally pokes his head out slightly. It’s almost time. “Brenda, Newt. Ready?”

They nod. “Don’t trip this time,” Thomas tells Newt, a shadow of humor in his voice.

“Nice to see you well enough to make jokes, Tommy.”

“Now!” Gally calls.

The three of them hop down, one after another in quick succession. With the rumbling of the next train behind them, they didn’t waste time with idle conversation again. They set out in a sprint, and Gally lets Brenda and Newt pass him, opting to take the tail-end this time. He expects their serious expression, unyielding even in how harshly they suck in their breaths, but Newt’s brows are ruffled in together as he passes Gally.

It goes smoothly, thankfully. The rubble doesn’t even get a chance to truly start vibrating until they were long up the ladder, slumped against the concrete walls to support themselves as they catch their breath. Gally stares at the ceiling, lets himself zone out for a few moments, waits for his lungs to stop stinging, before glancing to his right.

Newt is sitting up, spine ramrod straight, a tense hand on his holster and unblinking.

“Newt?” Gally asks slowly, starting to recognize that vacant look in Newt's eyes.

He watches as Newt’s focus darts between Gally and Brenda, lips moving silently. There’s a glint in his eye that leaves Gally uneasy.

“Newt?” Brenda repeats, levity gone. “What’s wrong with you?”

“How do you know my name?” Newt presses his back tighter against the wall, like he’s trying to escape. Escape from them.

Brenda and Gally share a look. “We’re your friends,” she starts.

It wasn’t the right thing to say. Newt tightens his hold on his holster. For a fleeting moment, he wonders if this is what Teresa felt during the interrogation. “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” he mutters, and Gally strains to hear him. “Not once.”

Gally slowly attempts to sit up, but Brenda subtly shakes her head. He settles back down.

“Where is he?” Newt breathes out, low and urgent. It’s faint, but there’s the softest hint of leather creaking, like Newt’s considering pulling out his gun. “Where’s Tommy?”

Sucking in a breath, Gally tries to reply—he’ll be here in a minute—when the next train whooshes past them, drowning out his response. In this sporadic lighting, Newt’s eyes burn bright, rapacious, boring deeply into Gally’s. The train fully passes them, and for a moment, darkness swallows them whole.

Then the lights flicker back on and Gally is staring directly into the barrel of Newt’s gun. When he speaks, it’s guttural, very nearly inhumane. “Where’s Tommy?”

Gally doesn’t flinch. “He’s coming,” he assures him, refusing to let his voice waver. “Maybe in ten seconds, he’ll be here.”

Newt presses the barrel closer, actually touching Gally’s forehead this time. “He wasn’t supposed to leave my side,” Newt retaliates, but it comes out unsure. “I know that much. We—we talked about that, I think.” For a moment, he shrinks on himself, before anger seems to seize him once more. “Where?”

A hand grazes Newt’s shoulder. “Hey—” Brenda murmurs.

The barrel leaves his forehead and is pointed at Brenda, but her draw is the quickest out of all of them. In an instant, both of them have their pistols pointed at each other, Newt shaking uncontrollably and Brenda calm, the only sign of her worry is from the downward tilt of her mouth.

Then, out of nowhere, Newt lowers his gun. “It’s been ten seconds,” he states abruptly. The whiplash leaves Gally reeling.

“What?” Brenda asks, lowering hers. “What are you talking about?”

“Tommy, he—“ Newt’s face scrunches, thinking. “He’s fast. I remember that much. It shouldn’t take him long. It’s not like him to be late. There must be something wrong.” The tunnel they’re in is cramped, but Newt tries to stand anyway, and suddenly collapses. “What’s wrong with this bloody leg…?”

In the back of his mind, Gally is vaguely impressed. Never mind forgetting Brenda and Gally; Newt forgot his limp, but is able to recall that Thomas can run faster than the average person. “You think Thomas is in trouble?”

Gally doesn’t hesitate—he foregoes the ladder and jumps down directly from the platform when he hears them, voices raised and Teresa clutching onto Thomas' arm like a lifeline. A flash of disbelief flares in his chest. How did Newt know?

“—You see that Brenda's fine? Can't you see there's—"

"I'll let this train run you over Teresa, I'm not fucking—"

"Please, this can save Newt's life—" Faintly, the screech of the train becomes audible, but the two of them pay no heed to it.

"Keep his name out of your mouth. You're the reason why his life needs to be saved—"

Gally doesn't even try to break into their argument. When he's close enough, he grabs Teresa's wrists and forcibly tears it away from Thomas. "I'm really starting to regret not taking Greenie's offer to just chop your thumb off."

"You have to listen," she starts, eyes shining with frustration, but the screeching is getting louder and louder. "The cure—!"

"How dare you," Thomas lashes out, ablaze. "Taunt the cure in front of me when you know I'd skin anyone alive to get my hands on it."

"The train!" Gally yells, but neither of them look at him.

"I'm not taunting, I know how much this means to you, and I want you—"

"And I don't, Teresa. I don't want you, I don't even want to see you, I can't stand to look at you."

Enough is enough. "Newt's memory is blanking again," Gally cuts in. "Has no idea who me and Brenda are."

Thomas whirls on him, Teresa completely forgotten. "Shit." Without warning, he turns and runs, the soles of his shoes barely hitting the ground before it's up again.

Teresa stares at his back for a long moment before turning to him. Heartbreak isn’t a strong enough word to describe the devastation on her expression. it's as if she doesn't hear the train that's rolling closer and closer to them. Or maybe she doesn't care. "Will you listen?" she asks him.

Gally gives her a blank look. "If you don't run now, you'll die."

He sets off, and he can't help the surprise he feels when footsteps sound behind him.

—

Curiosity gets Gally this time around. “How’d you know?”

Newt glances at him. By the time they got back, breathless and exhausted, Gally doubly so, Newt seemed to have found his memories again.

After a long moment of silence, Newt simply shrugs.

It would have been naive to expect any other answer.

#the maze runner #fic tag #newt #maze runner #TMR #thomas/newt #newtmas #a fragile line #ah shit here we go again #do you guys know when my last multichaptered fic was #2021 #for plainly in truth #isn’t that CRAZY #fever longing still #to all unaware this is a series! so please read the others first maybe #or not #be the master of your own fate

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hungharrington · 6 months

Text

a little less conversation, a little more action, please

[rings bell frantically] CALLING ALL PPL WHO HAD BAD SEX EXPERIENCES!!! if that’s you, this is for u :D ! this has been in the drafts 4 months and i’m excited to set it free! enjoy! 8k words, fem!reader, oral (f receiving) MDNI THIS ENTIRE BLOG IS 18+

You think you might be the only person your age in the whole of Hawkins who doesn’t seem to get the hype.

Couples have been caught all over in the act. At the drive-in cinema, in the back of the cinema, hell, even beneath the bleachers at school — tongues down each other's throats and pants around their ankles, so caught up in each other that they don’t care about consequences. That it’s that good, that it’s worth the risk.

Sex.

You just don’t get it.

Once upon a time, one boyfriend ago, before you’d ever experienced it, there had been an inkling of eagerness within you. Curiosity twined in with piqued interest, you wondered eagerly about when you’d find someone who’d show you all about why sex got its reputation.

And then you had it— with Samuel Cosgrove in his twin bed when his parents were out of town, 3 weeks into dating him. Your expectations crumbled.

You decided quickly that everyone must be lying if that was what you were supposed to be looking forward to. It wasn’t… sexy. You didn’t feel sexy having it either.

It only left you feeling somewhat awkward and a bit foolish, with Samuel trying to ruck your shirt up even though you had asked to keep it on. Embarrassment crept in easily at how you seemed to be half a step behind him the whole time, not quite warmed up, not quite sure if this was the mood, not quite ready to take all your clothes off.

The springs on his bed were loud and squeaked with every shift of weight. The whole thing sort of hurt more than anything.

You chalked it up to the first time, dredging together your hopes even as they rapidly deflated inside you, cemented by Samuel’s sloppy kiss that missed your mouth and landed wetly on the corner of your lips when he finished.

His sweat stuck to your skin and you didn’t feel sexy, or good, or relieved or anything else the dozen Cosmo magazines under your bed promised you would.

Next time, you said to yourself. You had even confided in your close friend, admitting to the underwhelming experience, and asked quite plainly when it ‘got good’.

“The first time always sucks!” She’d assured you, her voice a hushed whisper over the diner table.“Trust me, the first, like, three times totally suck.”

You didn’t mean to but, subconsciously, three became the number to reach— get through the first three terrible times, and… all would be peachy in paradise.

And so when the next time was… underwhelming, you weren’t exactly surprised. Worse, was how it wasn’t anything Samuel did but what he said that stuck with you long after he’d drifted off on your sheets. Lying in the cradle of your hips, Samuel had traced his hand up your legs and then frowned, yanking his hand back. You had startled, propping up quickly to ask him what it was.

“You’re spiky,” he said, chuckling in a mean way. You could feel your chest ache pathetically at his words and you instinctively tried to curl your legs in, wanting to hide them away. So what if they were? It was the middle of winter and he’d surprised you, showing up at your window to sneak in.

When the fourth time happened and disappointment weighed heavy on you again, you deduced the truth. Sex was some big scam- some stupid joke that everyone was in on and just pretending to enjoy.

It was easier to blame sex if only so you didn’t blame yourself. But… it niggles in the back of your brain, a line-up of indisputable facts that all point to the same thing. That, maybe sex isn’t the problem — but you are.

And, look, it’s not really a problem when you’re not dating or seeing anyone.

… Enter Steve Harrington.

Admittedly, Steve was not someone you thought you would ever date. Or maybe it was the other way around, that you thought that Steve would ever date you.

His reputation as a bit of a player was as far from something you were interested in, especially considering your feelings towards sex, but… he had sort of proven you wrong every chance possible.

One month of dates and it’s been no more than holding hands and kisses on cheeks. You’ve kissed him properly, of course, once or twice, but lest you give him the wrong idea, they hadn’t been much more than a quick kiss. Steve still seemed to glow afterward, no matter what.

It made you feel good. Safe. Warmed you to know he was happy with whatever affection you felt ready to bestow, and never pushed for more.

You could tell he wanted it. It was hidden in the flex of his fingers and even the not-so-subtle adjusting of his pants when he’d invited you over for a dip in his pool. You’d shown up in your bathing suit— and it was the most amount of skin Steve had ever seen from you and it did not go underappreciated. He had been touchy, hands skirting up your sides, but still respectful.

And strangely enough, you find yourself… wanting it too.

Wanting for his touch, thinking about letting your own hands wander across his skin to find what makes him sigh, makes him groan in pleasure, what might make him whine. It surprises you, the ferocity of your eagerness, how it presses your thighs together tightly and licks pure arousal up your spine — even when Steve’s not even trying.

(He was, you just didn’t know it. Steve knows exactly when girls seem to be looking at his arms and he’s unashamed to say he will flex his muscles and pretend he hasn’t. Robin has caught him doing this several times.)

And today has been nothing short of wonderful.

A balmy Saturday which you found yourself swept up in Steve’s company over at his house, laziness fuelled by the golden sun rays of the day.

You weren’t even doing anything in particular, just enjoying being near each other. You had stretched out on a pool lounger with a book in your hand for the most part and it was with giddy delight that Steve seemed more than chuffed to just lay beside you, sizzling in the sun and then occasionally cooling off in the pool.

Which is a spectacle all in itself.

The sight of his chest gives you one or two steamy ideas, especially as it drips with water when he pushes up on the edge of the pool. His biceps bulge deliciously as you peer over the edge of your book, not as subtlety as you might think. You honestly don’t even mind if he catches you staring, not when this is your view.

Your eyes trace the sparkling drops of water as they roll down his chest tantalizingly slow, through the chest hair between his pecs, down, down, trailing down his happy trail— fuck, okay, he totally caught you staring.

Your eyes dart back up to his face to find Steve’s already looking at you, his eyes holding a playful mirth to them. His smile looks just a little bit cheeky. Bastard.

Water splatters on the tiles where he walks as he pads over to collect his towel bunched on the end of the lounger beside your own.

“Good book?” He asks sweetly.

He says it as he scrubs the towel over his face, drying it off and then starting on his hair— he gives it a quick rub over rapidly so that when he pulls the towel away, his hair is sticking up in every direction. He holds the towel to his chest and gives his head a quick shake, like a dog, shaking out the extra water.

When he looks up at you again, beginning to towel dry his bare chest, you realise you haven’t even attempted to answer his question.

“Book.” You echo. Steve chuckles a little bit and it kickstarts your embarrassment, finally remembering to say something else. You hold the book up to gesture with it, “Yes! It’s good, it’s…”

Steve’s resumed drying himself and you find your words leaving you as the towel drags down his tummy, leading your eyes with it. Your mouth feels suspiciously dry. Want. You want him.

“It’s…?”

He’s teasing you again. You startle, wondering if he’s purposefully trying to put on a sensual towel-drying show for you. You’re surprised to find you’re actually glad that he is.

It feels like another subtle way to affirm all his affections for you without all of the touchiness you’ve yet to reach with him — come and get me, it’s like he’s saying, if you want.

You snap your book shut. “It’s too hot to be reading, I think.”

Steve frowns in his worry and steps forward, closer to you. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead lightly. “You feelin’ too warm? Y’gotta careful being out here too long if you aren’t gonna swim.”

He sounds on the concerned side but there’s a touch of cheek in his voice too, like he knows why you haven’t turned the page for the last 5 minutes. It stokes the firey feeling that’s beginning to burn in your gut. A smile curls at your lips and you huff a little laugh, leaning back and batting his hand away from your forehead.

“Yes, mom.” You jest, hand falling back onto the lounger. You lean back onto it to get a better view of him. “I’m not too hot.”

Steve grins. “Oh, I would say the opposite. You are, in fact,” He leans in closer, one hand coming up to push some hair behind your ear. His hand lingers, fingertips on the edge of your jaw. “Very hot.”

You couldn’t stop your reaction if you tried— which you do try, some sputtering cough with a duck of your head as you feel your body flush hotly at his words. His forwardness is something you’re still getting used to.

Just as you’re about to stumble through a poorly constructed sentence, Steve saves you— reaching over to grab his rumpled t-shirt and pulling it over his head. A small, disappointed, part of you wilts. You catch yourself from being so obvious, scooping up your bookmark and stuffing it in a random page.

Steve offers his hand out for you to take. “C’mon, we both need some water I think.”

You ponder if there’s a second meaning to his words as you trail along beside him, letting him lead you back through the sliding glass doors that open to the kitchen with your intertwined hands. Steve gives your hand a quick squeeze before he drops it to open the fridge, peering inside. You lean back against the counter, arms folding loosely over your front and allow yourself to look at him.

Your boyfriend. It sounds even a bit strange in your head and you know if you tried to say it aloud, it would get caught on the way out, tripping over your teeth. Calling him your boyfriend cements all those expectations you worry so much about… even though, not-so-secretly, you revel in the fact thats he’s your boyfriend.

“Thinking hard over there, I can see,” Steve comments teasingly and you blink, realising he’s already looking at you. He must have asked you a question and you missed it.

“What?”

Steve laughs a bit, pink lips pulled into a slight smirk. He shakes the bottle in his hands a little bit, bringing your attention to it. “Did you want to try some of this? I think it’s sparkling and…”

He trails off, pulling the bottle closer to his face to scan over the front of it. You can’t help but think the furrow in his brows as he reads is adorable. He hums, obviously not finding what he’s after, and flips the bottle over.

“…raspberry flavour?” He finishes, looking up at you, brows raised. He gives a little shrug. “That sound nice?”

You think about it for a moment and then shake your head. Steve laughs in agreement and places ii back in the fridge, some mumble about his mom leaving it here the last time she visited home. He turns back to the fridge still rummaging. “Okay, anything in particular you want?”

You are thirsty but… your stomach swoops as you realise it’s for something else altogether. If you want it though, you’ll have to ask.

“Maybe, a kiss?”

Steve freezes for an instant, then he whips around like he’s not entirely sure he’s heard correctly. The fridge door clatters loudly and he quickly grabs it, stopping the rattling bottles and looking mighty flushed when he shoots you a grin.

“A kiss?” He checks. He lets go of the fridge doors to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly, too aware of his own unsubtle eagerness. “I heard that right, didn’t I?”

A nervous chuckle scrapes out your throat but you nod. You uncross your arms but can’t settle them, crossing them again nervously as Steve comes closer. His brown eyes scan your face intently, searching to make sure he’s getting every signal right.

When you smile assuredly, Steve sighs in relief and his shoulders drop an inch. He smiles too, his hand reaching up to hold your faces cupping your cheek. His strokes across your cheekbone as he talks. “Oh, thank god. I was beginning to think, maybe, you just weren’t into kissing me.”

Then he leans in— and you hold your breath without meaning to.

The thing is, Steve is a good kisser. A very very good kisser and even your strange gaspy noise as you try to remember to breathe is not enough to ruin the kiss. His plush lips capture yours and have you feeling as hot as the day, a heat blooming in your chest and spreading like wildfire. Your fingers flex at your sides.

You push up on your toes without even thinking, to steal more of his touch, and when Steve breaks the kiss, you’re embarrassed to find yourself chasing his lips. You clear your throat and avert your eyes, sinking back down— embarrassed at showing how much you’d melted under a single kiss.

You just don’t realise how it looks to Steve.

“You do… right?”

Your head pops up, eyes widening as you try to comprehend his question.

“Like… kissing you?” You ask meekly, more embarrassed that he’s asking for confirmation. Embarrassed that you’d somehow been overly eager and also convinced him of the opposite in one kiss. God, maybe there is something wrong with you.

“Yeah.” Steve nods, pulling back a little further from you— like he needs physical space in case you say something absurd like ‘no.’

Your hands react faster than your mind, reaching to grab his shoulders to stop him from putting space between you.

“Yes!” You say loudly. You try to rein in your embarrassment for his sake, swallowing your nerves which feel thick and swollen in your throat. “Yes, I like kissing you. It’s just, I’m… I’m worried.”

How do you say this? How can you explain that you’ve been so afraid of your kisses going a few steps further because then- then when things get heated and Steve’s expecting things, you have to explain that — that what?

That you’re not really sure if you even like sex, or maybe that it just doesn’t seem to work for you or — or that there’s probably just something wrong with you that means you can’t figure out how the hell to relax and enjoy sex- and that it’s not his fault but probably totally yours but—

“Woah, woah, woah,” Steve cuts into your spiralling thoughts, having seen the dilemma spilled across your face. “Stop thinking what you’re thinking and just, like, take a breather.”

He places his hand on his chest and mimes a deep inhale. You copy him without thinking, chest rising and falling in sync with his, unable to look at him for a moment. When you find the courage to dredge your eyes up to his face, his eyes are soft and his brows have knitted together in concern.

“Good.” He praises, hand falling off his chest to rub gently at your arm. “Okay, now instead of doing all that worrying up there just… tell me what’s worrying you. Please?”

Part of you want to huff and hide, to make him really pry so you know that he means it. It’s dramatic, you know — especially because he’s being so good at communicating. He’s asked outright. You try to put the words in the correct order.

“Just… we haven’t— I haven’t kissed you a lot because I’m worried about what it might lead to.” You say quietly, eyes back to avoiding his gaze. You stare at his chest, the tuft of chest hair peeking out, and do your best to swallow the knot in your throat.

“And I— I don’t want to disappoint you,” you admit, frustrated at how a familiar sting burns at the back of your eyes. “But I- just, in the times I’ve gone that far and— and slept with someone, I didn’t… I just didn’t like it. I didn’t enjoy it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, proclamation out in the open, and try to take a deep breath— just like Steve had instructed mere moments ago. Courage gathered, you open your eyes and peer up at him again.

“Oh,” Steve breathes. You can nearly see the cogs turning in his head, his eyebrows twitching as he takes in what you’ve said and what it means for the two of you. “Oh, well that’s okay. I mean, if you didn’t want to I would never—“

“—That’s not the thing.” You interrupt. “I want to. I do. I just…” Your voice trails off, taking on a trembling whisper as you say the thing you’ve yet to say aloud yet, for fear of speaking it into existence. You can’t quite look at him, eyes focused on the kitchen tiles instead.

“I think it’s me. I think— I’m worried there’s something wrong with me.”

Your words hang in the air for a moment and Steve feels his worry shift into something deeper, something closer to devastation, as he realises how deeply you believe what you’ve said.

You genuinely think there is— even thinking it makes him want to scoff aloud. He forces himself to focus on consoling you here and now, instead of riling himself up with thoughts of whatever— whoever lead you to your immense self-doubt.

“Well, there’s not,” Steve says plainly. Like there’s no room for discussion— his hand drifting down your arm to gather your hands in his own. They get swallowed, his hands huge when compared to your own.

“There’s nothing wrong— you- you could never disappoint me in that way.”

Your eyes lift from the ground to his face, desperate to see if you can see the truth in his words. He can tell- fuck, he can already read you so well.

“Honest,” He insists, giving your hands a quick squeeze. “I promise you, okay? I- if I was disappointed over something like that it would be- that would be such a dick move.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first.” You mutter bitterly.

The words slip out without entirely meaning to; you aren’t trying to start a pity party but how are you supposed to explain why you think the way you do? How can you explain why you’re so worried about taking it further? Deep down, you know he deserves to know.

Steve’s eyes widen for a moment, your words sinking in and cutting as they go. He doesn’t want to think about you sleeping with other people, for all the jealous reasons, but mainly because everything he’s learned today is that nobody has taken proper care of you.

It twists his heart thinking of some fucking idiot not taking his time with you, not getting you comfortable— so that you get to this point, embarrassed, avoiding his eyes, and so entirely convinced that you’re the problem.

“Look,” Steve says softly. His hands squeeze yours again and he tries to think of how best to say this. “If we never sleep together, I don’t care.”

That catches your attention, your head jerking up to look at him — what? That has never even been an option with dating someone. Not in your mind, at least. You find yourself reeling, fumbling for words but Steve just keeps talking.

“If you don’t wanna, I don’t wanna,” Steve shrugs, like that’s all there is to it.

“There’s nothing wrong if it’s not really your thing.” Another squeeze to your hands. You look up at him, aware you must look a picture of bewildered — there were a thousand ways you imagined this conversation going and this was not one of them.

A smile pulls on his lips as he chuckles a bit, eyes falling to your conjoined hands. “Hell, for all we know I’d add to your disappointing experiences.”

You laugh quietly but it’s saturated in fondness. He’s taking jabs at himself to make you feel better.

“Hardly likely, considering the rumours I’ve heard about you,” You murmur lowly. You find it in yourself to squeeze his hands back, peering back up at him. Steve’s brows rise and he grins.

“Oh? And just what rumours are we talking about?” He teases.

“Shut up,” You say, no heat behind it in the slightest. Your chest is starting to feel lighter and lighter as the reality of his words sink in. “You know what they say about you.”

Steve grins wider. “That I slept with Mrs. Click just to pass her class?”

“What?” You wrinkle your nose at the horrid picture of your old English teacher with your boyfriend. “No! Did people really say that about you?”

Steve’s grin fades, edging towards jaded. He gives a soft sigh, tilting his head back an inch. “People say everything and it all means nothing unless it’s coming from the right person.”

He wriggles a hand free from your unaware tightening holding to brush his knuckles against your cheek tenderly. A piece of hair flops over his forehead, curling back upwards, and the buzz of cicadas fills the empty noise around you.

“So, I don’t know if some asshole told you or you just think that you’re wrong, but…” Steve inhales, his eyes darting between yours.

The brown in them is intense, holding you fixed beneath his heavy gaze. “If— just you said you want to so, we can try and- and we can go slow and I’ll stop the moment you want to, okay? For whatever reason.”

You feel a strange bubble of hope churn in your gut. It feels too good to be true.

“…You’re sure?”

“M’sure,” Steve nods. “Even for something as small as you don’t like the way my dick looks or—“

A laugh startles out of you and you shake your head. “I meant more about stopping but good to know anyways.” You pause a moment. “…Should I be worried?”

You’re teasing. Steve delights in it, his own voice slipping that little bit lower— his knuckles on your cheek swiping across, down your jaw, til he lingers near your neck.

“Why don’t you find out?”

The hunger in your tummy returns with a new heat, rivalling the day. You suddenly feel nervous again, a roll of nerves turning over, but this time it feels far closer to anticipation. The kiss you’ve been yearning to give him, hot and messy, burns up inside you and when you rise on your toes, Steve meets you in the middle.

Your lower back presses against the counter as Steve leans into you, his mouth slotted against yours. One kiss snowballs into another, and another, the fervency growing as you let yourself give into your desire. Your hands on his shoulders shift, trailing down to feel up the chest you’ve been gawking at all day.

Steve lets out a quiet grunt as your nails dig in and his other hand finds your waist, tugging you to press against his body — his other hand slides into your hair, clutching the strands loosely. You sigh into his mouth, nerves still alight beneath your skin but the way they buzz makes you feel good. Steve makes you feel good.

Right as his hand scrapes along your lower back, heading lower, you’re both startled by the loud beep! that sounds in the kitchen. At the same time you peer around him, Steve turns and gives a sheepish chuckle, seeing the fridge door still ajar from when he’d been fishing around inside.

He steps away from you, pushing the doors closed gently. Turning back, your chest swells with pride seeing the effect you’re already having on him; red lips, shiny with spit and a faint ruby colour in the apples of his cheeks. Steve smiles, boyish and charming.

“Do you wanna keep—“

“—yes.”

You’re not going to squander this chance, not going to waste the days' chemistry when there’s still that tiny worry niggling in the back of your brain that today is all a fluke. That Steve’s words might just be an offer, something else that wouldn’t be a first for you.

Steve grins. He holds out his hand and you intertwine yours with him, letting him lead you. Your stomach swoops as he takes you out the kitchen and heads for the stairs, checking back on you with a quick glimpse. You do your best to show him your excitement instead of your nerves. You’re not sure you succeed.

Squeezing his hand does the trick for a final reassurance. Steve resumes leading you up the stairs, taking a familiar turn towards his bedroom, beginning to talk softly as he does.

“Remember, anytime, anything you don’t like, just say the word.”

You both pause, standing in his room and you swallow the doubts that try to claw back up your throat. Giving a sly glance at him, you smile coyly and wiggle your hand out from his. Trailing backwards to his bed, you pretend to think about it, til your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

“Hmm… well,” You begin, a touch of sultriness dipping into your voice. “I don’t like… that you’re still wearing your shirt.”

Before you, Steve huffs a silent laugh, that handsome smile gracing his lips as he ducks his head. He doesn’t disappoint though, his arms reaching up behind his head to shuck his shirt off in one fluid motion.

He chucks it aside thoughtlessly and where it lands doesn’t even matter — your eyes are fixed on his chest. His bare chest that you’ve been given permission to properly ogle at. You swear you feel your mouth salivate a bit.

“Should've known this would go first, considering the way you were drooling outside,” Steve remarks cockily, folding his arms loosely. It makes his biceps bulge and you swallow again, this time nothing to do with nerves.

“I wasn’t drooling,” You defend weakly, beginning to fidget with the hem of your own shirt. “I was admiring, okay? There’s a difference.”

Steve saunters over slowly as you talk, steps slow and measured. He’s smirking by the time he’s before you, so close you can feel the heat of him. “Uh huh. Totally, sweetheart, I believe you. Need help with this?”

His hand has reached out, fingers pinching the same hem you’re fiddling with. You nod slowly, “Yes, please.”

Steve’s smirk fades into something sweeter and he grabs the hem with two hands, beginning to ruck it up gently, his eyes locked on yours — you raise your arms when it starts to get caught, holding your gaze to his until the fabric intersects. Your arms drop and you push away the urge to wrap them around your middle.

Steve drops your shirt much more gently than his own but his eyes are still entirely on you. There’s a shine of awe in them now, flicking up at down the newly exposed skin.

The intensity of his gaze makes you want to shy away but you chose bravery instead, reaching out to grab his side. Steve jumps, barely an inch, and before you even get a chance to question, he’s smiling. “Y’got cold hands, honey.”

He draws them up to his mouth, laying soft kisses across your knuckles. Heat flushes through you and you melt beneath it, lowering yourself back on the bed. Steve follows eagerly, still kissing at your hands. He kneels between your legs and when he finally drops your hands from his, it’s to reach out and cup your jaw.

“Keep breathing,” He murmurs quietly, eyes dancing in amusement. You hadn’t even realise you had been holding your breath. You realise it in one big exhale and this time, when you reach for him, you actually succeed in tugging him closer. You tumble backward into his sheets and Steve comes with you, his forearms planted on either side of you and his body pressed up against yours.

“I don’t like…” You say, continuing the bit from earlier, your voice quiet and still tinged with a poorly hidden nervousness. “That you keep waiting to kiss me.”

Steve’s brows hike up an inch but his smile hides his surprise easily, his entire face glowing a bit brighter. He looks fucking gorgeous bathed in the buttery sunlight, even though it’s just beginning to fade towards darkness behind the curtains.

You stare unabashedly up at him, marvelling at his features that are etched in with adoration for you. You follow down the strong line of his nose, along the soft arches in his eyebrows, the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that he has from smiling.

You study the swell of his cupids bow perched above his pink lips and each of the moles dotted all over your favourite face— and think to yourself it’s not fucking fair that he looks like this. Like he’s been carved from marble and cast in gold.

Thank God he’s yours.

He doesn’t disappoint you — his lips finding yours and kissing you deeply, his chest brushing your own. Your entire body seems to sigh at the touch, tingling with anticipation — you’ve been overdue for all these kisses for far too long and it seems once you’ve gotten started, it feels impossible to stop.

You kiss needily, your hands moving off his midriff to drift up to his jawline. You cradle it gently, your lips a little less gentle- you try to remember how to do this, how to nip at his lips teasingly, how to soothe them with your tongue.

Slowly, Steve’s body weight lowers onto you as he focuses more and more on figuring out what you seem to like. Time melts like candle wax and you feel as goopy as it too, all warm and pliable, softened by his kisses. Heat begins to simmer in your gut. You don’t know how long you’ve been kissing when Steve pulls away, his mouth cherry red and his face flushed.

His fingers slip beneath the strap of your bra, toying with it but nothing more. He checks over your face as he asks, “Wanna take this off?”

You nod, breathlessly. Up til now, it’s been easy to turn off your brain and let all your thoughts revolve around getting kissed absolutely stupid by Steve.

But as his hands work deftly beneath you, unclipping the strap of your bra and beginning to tug it down, you feel the first worry creep in — this is usually when your panties follow, then his boxers, and then the expectations. Even with all your enjoyment, you know that if he tries now, you won’t be ready.

Frustration bubbles up in your chest, mingling with your insecurity and you squirm a bit, trying to think of how to tell Steve without disappointing him.

You’re so sick of disappointing people for something you can’t seem to help.

Steve notices your squirming. His head shoots up to meet your gaze, a furrow back in his brow. “Hey, hey, what’s goin’ on?”

“I…” Words die on your tongue easily, a war happening inside your throat as you debate what to say. You like him— you really like him and don’t want this to end and… he told you he wants you to tell the truth.

“I don’t… I’m not—“ Your whisper climbs in volume alongside your frustration. “Steve, this isn’t working.”

The wrinkle between his brow deepens and it’s not a comforting sight. Steve shifts a bit, his hand moving from the straps of your bra up to your face. He pushes back a few stray locks of hair, eyes sincere.

“Not working?” He murmurs, “Baby, we’ve only just started.”

You blink up at him once, twice. Your mouth opens and then closes again.

You know that but you also know how this goes. Well, you think you know— so why do you suddenly feel so foolish?

“Oh.” You say shyly. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and try to ignore feeling like you’ve just ruined the mood.

Steve takes it all in his stride, nothing but a twitch in his furrows brows as he takes in your embarrassed expression. He leans down, and kisses your neck, then your collarbone. His lips trail down, down, slow and sensual. Your bra scraps down your arms, tossed aside absentmindedly.

“Sweet girl,” he whispers into your skin. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” You echo, a bit breathier as Steve's kisses scrape down your breast. Your nipples peak to attention.

“Mhm,” he hums, his lips wrapping around your nipple and sucking— his hands paw greedily at your back which arches eagerly into his kisses. Steve drags his mouth off, beginning to mouth softly down your breast til his plush lips kiss at your sternum.

“M’sorry that nobody has ever taken care of you before.”

You squirm beneath him at his words, a warm flush washing through your body as desire spins up inside you. Steve continues as if he hasn’t turned your whole view inside-out— his hand shifting up to thumb at your nipple as he takes your nipple back between his lips.

“Steve…” you sigh out.

He’s kneading your body in just the right way, the sensitivity of your chest fuelling the pool of heat growing deep in your stomach. You feel your thighs clench together, hips shifting up instinctively. You haven’t been touched like this before and fuck, it’s a lot.

“I know, honey.” He says lowly, voice muffled against your skin. He suckles at your nipple and just nips at it, a flash of teeth, enough to make you arch further. Your eyes slip shut and you push your chest further out.

To your disappointment, Steve pulls back instead. Your eyes open, neck craning to look at him, your chest rising and falling with your heavy breaths.

“Y’tell me if there’s anything you don’t like, alright?”

Somehow, the heat in your gut flares that much hotter — knowing that there’s love behind every motion. You scramble for threads of courage and hold them tightly. Then you bend your legs until you can slide them around his waist, ankles crossing and tugging him closer. His cock, straining in his pants, presses flush against your core, and at the same time you inhale, Steve stutters out a groan.

“I’ll tell you.” You say, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip to hold back your grin. It melts away as Steve shifts against you purposefully, one of his hands dropping to hold your hip. The hard length of him grinds against your cunt, catching the angle of your clit in a way that makes you mewl beneath him.

Steve kisses your breast again but your hands are already reaching for him— fingers cupping his jaw to tug him up. Your lips capture his and this time, when he rolls his hips into yours, the soft noise you make is swallowed in his kiss. It’s fervent, your kisses gaining speed and mess. You tighten your ankles and experiment with your grind and are rewarded with a jagged moan from Steve.

Faintly, you consider how it makes a little more sense now. That all those desperate motions of making out, rutting against each other, hot open-mouth kisses— fuck, if it was always like this, you get it. You feel like you’re on fire.

A breeze flutters the curtains across the room, the only indication of time outside your little bubble. It’s far too easy to get lost in the motions— building up your lust until you’re sure the cotton between your legs is soaked through. It feels silly but god, even though you knew this was one of the things making all those past times so terrible, you had just assumed that’s how it would always be.

The stickiness feels vulgar, your cunt pulsating with heat like you’ve never felt before. It just makes it all feel better though— the warm, hard heat of Steve’s cock, fitting snug between your folds.

A pause in the makeout to catch your breath. You’re huffing wildly and Steve takes the moment of his undistracted attention to focus on the shorts you’re wearing. He doesn’t ask verbally this time but as he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband, his eyes flash up to yours in question.

You wiggle your hips and Steve takes his cue, the fabric scraping against your skin as it slides down, down, down. To your surprise, Steve goes with them. He gets halfway down the bed, his head aligned with your belly, hands kneading at the flesh of your boobs before he halts.

“I wanna try something,” He says, looking up at you. He dots a quick kiss onto your skin as he does, not breaking eye contact. “And I think you’re gonna really love it.”

He drags out the word really, his voice low enough that it rumbles, nearly a purr.

“It involves a little bit of this.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss into your navel. He kisses nice and slow, the plushness of his lips scraping across the stretch of skin.

You shiver a little, feeling how your thighs part instinctively and Steve smiles wickedly, seeing the motion.

“A little—“ He travels further down, his hands sliding to hold the outside of your thighs. He grips the skin and urges it to spread wider— then takes a greedy fat lick along your inner thigh. “—of this.”

You squirm. It’s unnerving in the best way, having someone so dedicated to making you feel good— but Steve’s face betrays no hint of insincerity. In fact, if you had to guess, you’d say he even looks excited.

His large tan hands cover your hips, slender fingers curved atop your thighs to keep them pried open. You’re expecting the next question to be getting the final scrap of clothing off you— a mixture of nerves and excitement at the vulnerability that comes with taking them off.

He doesn’t though. Drawing a line with the tip of his nose, he nuzzles down from the inside of your knee to your thigh, the warmth of his breath fanning across sensitive skin. He kisses your cunt, once, soft. You twitch, a sweet noise pushing past your lips.

Steve does it again. This time, his lips part and you feel his tongue press through the soaked cotton of your panties — he kisses again, harder, moving over your clit with his tongue. This time you moan and feel your hips tip up to chase his mouth, surprising yourself.

Fuck, when have you ever been this wet before? The cotton between your legs is sticky and it only gets messier with Steve’s every lick. The duvet crinkles beneath you as you sigh and sink into it, the low throb of pleasure curling up in your gut.

“Steve,” you sigh his name like it’s a prayer.

He hums against your core, his fingers gliding beneath the elastic of your panties but not pulling them down just yet. His hot mouth drops lower, his nose pressing into you at the perfect angle. Your breathy exhale is lilted with moans.

“See?” He murmurs, so low you nearly don’t hear him.

“S’Nothing wrong with you, sweetheart. Y’just needed…“ His fingers grip your panties and begin to pull and you aid him quickly with a lift of your hips. “…someone to take a little more care with you.”

Any fear of vulnerability is whirled far away; you need his mouth back on you, like, yesterday. Especially when Steve groans. Like the sight of your glistening cunt is enough to make his cock ache. Your tummy heats further at the thought.

His hands re-situate, soothing up to your tummy before sliding back down to grasp the tops of your thighs again. He pulls them open wider.

Pure fire streaks through your nerves, a sweltering pleasurable burn twisting in your gut as Steve’s tongue licks through your folds in one bold stroke. Your hips try to twitch forward but his hands are already there, holding them down.

There’s one more pause, one soft curse of adoration, as his nose nuzzles along the soft skin of your inner thigh. You feel unbearably warm in his sheets, heat pulsating and dancing beneath your skin.

“Steve,” you whisper his name again, urging him gently. “Please.”

“I got you,” He murmurs in response. “You don’t gotta say please with me,” He hums lowly, then kisses right on your clit, languid and warm, his tongue swirling around it deftly. You cry out softly.

He drags his mouth off you and if you looked down, you’d see the soft sheen of your slick on his rosy lips. “I wanna give you everything you want.”

You gasp as he finally puts his mouth on you properly, pleasure dribbling through your core as he suckles on your clit. He’s killer with his tongue, twisting it and flattening it against your bud in a way that has you squirming. The sheets scrunch in your frenzied grip.

For the first time, you understand why pornos even sound like that— taking a moment to realise the whiney gaspy noise you’re hearing is coming from you.

“Oh god,” You whine prettily. “That’s— uh— fuck, that’s really good.”

Between your thighs, you hear and feel the moan Steve gives back. Your thighs are twitching, torn between trying to keep them apart or warm your boyfriend's ears. Your hips are moving, subtle grinds up into Steve’s face and he takes it all appreciatively. He sucks and slurps, tongue dragging down your folds to toy at your clenching hole— making you squeal.

“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back for a moment. His voice is doused in arousal. “You’re so wet.”

Heat plumes low in your tummy as he dives back in, a groan echoing from his throat. The coil in your gut tightens, winding tighter and tighter. Your chest heaves as your voice melts away until everything you say is a whimpery little “yes, yes, yes,” and Steve’s name.

His huge hands are still pressing your thighs apart but one shifts suddenly, barely noticeable in your mounting euphoria, until it’s tapping at your hand fisted in the sheets.

You lift your head, confused, and peer down at him.

It’s a mistake. His hand is resting on the bed in front of your own, propped up and fingers spread. It's clear he wants to hold your hand. Chest heaving and still lightly moaning, your eyes dart from his hand to his face — and that’s the mistake.

He’s fucking beautiful. Hair mussed, rosy-cheeked, and dark-eyed, Steve can only hold eye contact for a moment before his eyelids slip shut as he moans against your cunt. Fire blooms under your skin, coil turned tighter and together. He wants to hold your hand. Your fingers just manage to tangle with Steve’s, holding tight, as you tip over the edge with a cry.

It’s intense — jagged waves of pleasure that ride through every nerve in your body and have you nearly overwhelmed with how fucking good it feels. Incoherent babbling whines pour from your mouth. Your thighs lock up, beating Steve’s strong hold now that he’s down to just one hand, and close around his head. He moans in response, his tongue never letting up, licking and sucking at your cunt fervently.

And he holds your hand the whole way through.

You feel thoroughly flattened by the time your orgasm tapers off, your legs relaxing and flopping tiredly against the bed. Vaguely, you’re aware you should apologise for likely cutting off his oxygen flow for a good couple of seconds there but you’re too out of breath yourself to do so.

Your chest rises and falls and a sweet contentment settles into your skin. You feel happy, loved. Without meaning to, an awed laugh titters out of you.

Then another, and another. You can’t seem to stop laughing, a gleeful silly joy as you release his hand to bury your face in your own.

“Holy shit,” you whisper to yourself. Then, slightly louder. “Holy shit, Steve.”

You hear him laugh and the sheets crinkle — and then he’s in your field of vision, hovering over you with an adoring grin on his face. His lips are still so pink and there’s a shine on his chin. He wipes it away absentmindedly, focused on you.

“I take it you enjoyed yourself?” He says, genuine and not at all cocky. He settles down, one arm on either side of your chest. One of his hands sweeps over your face sweetly.

You nod, tucking your bottom lip behind your teeth to constrain your grin.

“Uh huh,” you say, voice all gooey. “I didn’t—“

You pause. “I thought— and then you— and Oh my Goddd.” You cover your face with your hands again, groaning exaggeratedly as you try to roll over and melt away into his bed sheets.

“See? I told you it wasn’t you,” Steve says, peppering little kisses where he can reach. He kisses your shoulder, along the side of your face. He coaxes you out gently, pressing your shoulder to roll you onto your back. You face him properly.

“There is nothing wrong with you.” He reminds you. You’ve never been so happy to be wrong. You nod, hair scrunching against the pillow behind you.

“Okay,” You say, with a small smile, finally believing it. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Steve’s stare is glowing with fondness and the next moment, he’s lurching forward to press his mouth to yours. You kiss back greedily and lazily all at once.

He pulls back and you hate how the thought comes to you, unbidden; the smallest wrinkle creasing between your brows.

“But,” You begin, voice small. “That wasn’t sex though.”

Steve’s head tilts an inch, like an adorably confused puppy. “What do you mean? That was sex.”

“What? That was— that was like second base.”

Steve huffs a laugh, though not directed at you. His gaze shifts above your head as he chooses his words. “Uhh, sure, if we were still in high school. But even then, that’s still sex. We just had some sex.”

Stating it so plainly, you can’t help how it makes you giggle a bit. Steve rolls his eyes, even though you can tell he’s entirely endeared.

“We just had sex,” You repeat his words, eyes bright and grin growing. “And I really enjoyed it.”

Steve laughs loudly and steals a quick kiss from you. Holding up his hand, he wiggles his eyebrows at you. “Just had sex high-five?” He jokes.

You slap your hand against his anyways, twisting your fingers to hold onto his hand as you let them fall to the bed. Steve beams, cuddling in closer, the tip of his nose nuzzling against your own.

Turns out, you might be starting to get the whole big deal around sex after all.

#uhm. basically don’t read into this #who minds a little (or a whooooole lot) of projection!#not me! :D #🧌…. part two?#steve harrington smut #steve x reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x you #steve x you #steve x reader smut #steve harrington #jay writes

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