#thomas' first memory of the flare
Text
Portrait: I
Masterpost
PREV | NEXT
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: The first portrait session.
Warnings (for this chapter): none
Word Count: 1.4k
Authors Note: Enjoy! <3
I
It's an early spring morning when you watch from the drawing-room window, heart in your mouth, as he descends gracefully from his carriage, so elegant in a navy jacket over a maroon waistcoat with a soft gold silk cravat. You listen as your family butler lets him in, and before you can arrange yourself on the setee, he strides in business-like. All he knows is that he is here to paint a portrait of a bride for her intended. He already has his hand out to shake yours… until he sees it's you.
His whole stance changes, and you know in an instant that he recognises you from the gallery that night. Now, up close, you see how tall he is, the turn of his aristocratic nose and his eyes that are the haziest blue you have ever seen. It's impossible to look away.
There is something charged in the air as, instead of shaking your hand, he delicately takes it up to his lips and brushes the lightest of kisses across your knuckles. There is no skin contact, seeing as you are wearing silk gloves, but even that simple gesture has you undone. You can feel the warmth of his fingers and his lips through the material, and you have to school your breathing; your stays suddenly too tight around your ribcage.
“Miss y/l/n,” his voice is a veritable rumble, and your body is aflame. You are his. Completely. There is no other man you wish to know, wish to marry. Ever. You want him to take your hand and run. Run far away until the name Thomas Baden-Smith is but a distant memory…. “Show me where you wish for this portrait to be painted.” he cuts into your yearning reverie.
You stumble, almost dazed, towards the chaise you have set up in front of the fireplace for this exact purpose. His gaze flits between you and then around the room.
“The light there is not quite right,” he opines with a head tilt. “I would like to move you,” he adds, drawing closer. You sit there dumbfounded for a second until you realise he is looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to get up so he can rearrange the furniture.
“Sorry, good sir,” you apologise and jump to your feet, stepping aside, not missing how his nostrils flare at the honorific title you bestow upon him.
He moves the chaise, so it is on a diagonal. Then asks you to sit again as he moves to stand in front of the window. All you see is his silhouette as the bright sunlight blazes behind him.
“Perfect!” he exclaims after a moment of consideration, gesturing for his valet to set up his easel where he stands.
The valet does so and then bustles quickly from the room. It is just you and Benedict now. And the grandfather clock in the corner, loudly announcing each second with its pendulum swing.
You decide it is good that you cannot see him so well with where he has chosen to stand. Perhaps you will be able to sit still. Not think about the tingle you still feel on your knuckles where he kissed you, barely a chaste brush as it was. Just last year, you shared a stolen kiss with your childhood friend Daniel behind the greenhouse, his tongue in your mouth, his hands grabbing your bottom. But that was nothing compared to the split-second Benedict Bridgerton’s lips burned a metaphorical hole through your glove and your heart. And indeed, the polar opposite of the disdain you feel every time you are within a few feet of your intended, albeit the very reason you are sitting here in the first place.
You have to force yourself to concentrate as Benedict details how the process will work, explaining it will take around five hours and that he will paint the portrait over the course of five sessions. Adding that he has heard from a good friend that this is the most successful approach, as after an hour, people tend to get restless about sitting still.
“Do you have a pose in mind, or would you like me to suggest one for you to adopt?” he asks, and your mind goes blank. You honestly had not even considered that.
“Nothing in particular. Just something acceptable for my future husband to hang in his hallway,” you answer quietly, reluctant to vocalise the reason he is here.
Something flashes in his eyes, and it dawns on you that perhaps your parents did not elucidate why they requested his services.
“Right, well,” he bustles, seeming a little off-kilter, “we should endeavour to capture the very reason he fell in love with you….”
“He does not love me,” you cut in, desperate to clarify, “and I certainly do not him. Not all people have the privilege of marrying for love, Mr Bridgerton,” you end, your voice brittle.
You see him nod and swallow heavily as if he has words he doesn't want to allow to escape. “Permit me a closer look to determine the best pose?” his request gentle and respectful.
Suddenly he is kneeling in front of you as you perch on the chaise. You have to fix your gaze on a spot on the wall behind him; you dare not look at him as he seems to study your face.
“You have a face that captures the light perfectly,” he murmurs, and you know a blush stains your cheeks and creeps lower your collarbone feeling heated and prickled. A gasp catches in your throat as a long, elegant thumb and forefinger delicately grab your chin and move your face to be slightly in profile. It's his bare hand on your skin. Your body flushes hot, and there is a sudden pulse at the apex of your thighs; you have to swallow hard to tamp the saliva filling your mouth.
“That's it,” his tone triumphant, “don’t move.”
Your eyes dart to meet his even as you keep your head where he requested. There is a split second where your gaze holds, and his pupils enlarge as you slowly draw your bottom lip under your teeth without realising. There it is again. That jolt that you ardently want to believe he feels too.
It's almost a relief when he clears his throat, stands up and walks back to his easel, puttering around with paints and brushes as you watch in your peripheral vision. Just as you think you are back to an even keel, he peels off his jacket and rolls up the frilled cuffs of his crisp white shirt, exposing his toned forearms. You feel a galloping tightness in your chest, yet again, you cannot look anywhere but him.
“This is to prevent charcoal or paint transferring,” he explains, erroneously assuming your intense stare is borne of confusion rather than abject enthrallment.
“Of course…” you respond, shaking your head lightly to rid the reverie of thoughts your mind is supplying, tumbling images of your fingertips tracing over the vein that runs from his wrist to his elbow.
“At first, I like to sketch an outline as a guide for my painting,” he explains, and you just nod, unsure of what else to do.
And then all is quiet as he concentrates on the task at hand. It is a strange trance-like state you enter as the moments tick by. Holding the pose as you hear charcoal scratch over the canvas. Attempting to syncopate your heartbeat with the gentle dull rhythm of the grandfather clock. Anything to school your body’s reaction every time your eyes stray to him.
Half an hour has passed when the pins and needles start to creep into your limbs, your body more on an even keel as it adjusts to his continued presence. Your brain feels like it needs some stimulation, and alas, you cannot read a book, so decide conversation it must be.
“How many young lady’s portraits have you painted?” you ask as he seems to change for a different pencil.
“None,” he admits with mild contrite, “you are my first. My speciality is usually landscapes.”
“First of many, I am sure,” you affirm. “Once they see your work here, you will have a line of customers.”
“You flatter me, miss,” his cheeks heating a delightful shade of pink as he dips his head and continues his work. Not without his eyes twice darting to yours and then looking away.
You pretend not to notice the ache in your chest his humility causes as the clock strikes the hour, signalling the end of your session.
And when he leaves a few moments later, wrapping up the canvas without letting you see it, you feel strangely bereft—as if he has taken a little piece of you with him out of the door.
Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush
#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton#bridgerton imagine#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x female reader#portrait fic
305 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hi! Could you do a enemies to lovers with Minho. You guys were both taken by WICKD at a young age and became pretty good childhood friends and then later you started dating in your teens. Minho was then taken away and you rebelled with Thomas and they sent you up. In the maze you don’t get along with Minho but then suddenly you both get a memory of you two dating from before the maze. Angst and you don’t get together until scorch trials? Jealous Minho lolol. Love ur work!
It’s Always Been Minho (TMR Minho X Reader)
Fandom: The Maze Runner
Requested: Clearly
Warnings: WICKED
Pronouns: She/Her
W.C. 5124
Summary: Minho and the reader were together before the maze. What will happen in the maze and after they get out?
As always, my requests and ships are OPEN
MASTERLIST // HITLIST
~~(^Google/Wiki fandom)
I couldn’t see. The last thing I saw was the WICKD workers taking me out of the little cave I called home after my parents went crazy. They caught the Flare.
I couldn’t remember all that happened. I recall them saying I would be safer with them rather than on my own. They said they wanted to help find a cure. They said I was immune. I didn’t know what that meant. I was four.
My head hurts. I think I was screaming. It could have been someone else. Who knew? It has only been a week since I followed those WICKD soldiers out of my cave. They took me to their facility. There were more people there. I didn’t get to meet any of them, but I saw them when I first walked in. I was the youngest. I didn’t like it.
They told me it was a simple test. They wanted to see my brain waves when I did puzzles. Then, they knocked me out, and now, it hurts. There’s a boy in the bed next to me. He stopped screaming a while ago. The nurses and doctors refused to come in while we were screaming, and he learned that the hard way.
By the time I stopped screaming, another person a few rooms over started. “I hate this. It hurts.”
“Tell me about it,” the boy said, turning to glare at me. “You didn't have someone next to you screaming their head off for the last hour.”
“My bad,” I sassed, looking over to meet his gaze. “By the sound of it, everyone reacts this way at first.”
“You’d be right about that one,” he laughed. “Last time a nurse came in here was to drop you off. That was a few hours ago.”
“How long have you been in here?”
“Since yesterday,” he signed, flipping over to his side. “Said I could leave this morning but never told me anything after that.”
“I’m sorry. Probably my fault. I’m (Y/N).”
“Or they’re just jerks,” he laughed again. “I’m Minho.”
~4 years later~
There was knocking. I was sure of it. A few minutes passed by before I heard it again. This time, I stood up to open my door only to find Minho leaning against the wall.
“Took you long enough, sweetcheeks,” he whispered.
“Are you insane?” I seethed, moving to pull him into my room. “Them WICKD workers could kill you for sneaking out.”
“Oh yeah?” He asked, rhetorically as he moved towards my bed. “What good’ll that do them? They need us.”
“Point is that they’re sticklers for rules, and one of the main rules is to not leave our rooms after lights out.”
“Again, what’ll they do? Kill me? Doubt that,” he smirked as he wrapped his arms around my waist to pull me down to the bed on top of him as he laid down. “Plus, I got news.”
“What kind of news?”
“Good news,” he smiles. “Everyone’s merging.”
“Like everyone everyone or most of us?”
“Well, obviously the golden four won't be with us, but I heard we’re gonna be allowed to eat together, go to classes together, and we’ll have roommates.”
“They would never room you with me,” I laughed at his statements. “They’ll stick you with Newt and me with Harriet.”
“Unless they group us in those two huge rooms by the stairs,” he offered. “Maybe they’ll split us into the groups they’re prepping us for.”
“If they do that, they’re probably going to split us by gender,” I countered. “I heard group A was going to be the guys and group B was the girls.”
“Well, I guess I’ll be sneaking into the girls’ room every night.”
“Take a lady to dinner first.”
“I literally eat with you at every meal!”
~4 years later~
I couldn’t sleep. I just couldn’t shut down. This room was too big, too echo-y. Every little sound caused anxiety to rise in my chest. I didn’t like this new room. I missed my isolated cell. I miss Minho randomly stopping by and talking for hours. It’s been years since the merge, but I still do not like it.
Then, I heard the door close. I pretended to be asleep, in fear of the WICKD guards catching me again. The footsteps echoed through the room, but they did not sound like the boots of other WICKD workers. They sounded like someone was being careful of where they were going like they were searching for someone.
“Pst,” they whispered. “I hate that you guys can’t stick with one format. Like they’re just beds! Why do you have to rearrange it so often?”
“Maybe you boys are just boring,” I laughed in response, immediately recognizing the voice as Minho. “Why do you come in here every night?”
“Maybe I just want to see you, sweetcheeks,” he teased as he continued to move around the room blindly until he tripped over something on the ground. “What's with all this clunk?”
“Shut up, Minho! If you want to hang with your girlfriend, take her out and let us sleep!” One of the girls exclaimed. With a groan, and probably an eye-roll, he got up and found my bed.
“Finally,” he let out a breath. “Now, you want to get out of here?”
“Take a lady to dinner first,” I laughed.
“What if I want our first date to be a walk in the park?” He offered before pausing, “or facility. We don't have a park.”
“What if I said yes?”
“Then, I will take you out right now.”
“Okay,” I giggled. “Let me grab a jacket and my shoes real quick.”
“Here,” he said, taking his hoodie off, revealing a long sleeve WICKD shirt underneath. He helped me put it over my head once I sat up in my bunk. “Take mine. I bet you’d look cute in it”
“Oh, smooth, Min,” I replied, sarcastically. “Now, lead the way.”
He grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the large room into the hallway where we met up with Alby.
“Took you bloody long enough,” Alby complained. “We almost got caught twice!”
“Didn’t take you as a stickler,” Minho shot back.
“Last I thought, you were just going in and getting the girl,” Alby laughed as he pushed himself up from where he was sitting on the floor. “Didn’t realize it’d take you 20 minutes.”
“Okay, shut up both of you,” I stated. “You need to pack your patience.”
“And you just got shut down by a girl,” Minho laughed. He pulled me along, leaving Alby behind. “Let’s go, you lazy shanks! We’re going to kidnap Thomas and Teresa.”
“That was the plan?” I wondered. “How are we going to get them to follow us?”
“Just say we found something cool,” Alby laughed. “They’re probably bored as heck in their rooms all day. They don’t get to see anyone besides the doctors and each other, so anything is better than nothing.”
“Exactly,” Minho agreed as we continued down the hallway towards their respective rooms that were at opposite ends of the hall. “We can also show them what WICKD is trying to get us to do. Show them what kind of experiments they are doing to us.”
“I’ll get Teresa, you guys get Thomas,” I said, stopping her room, as the others continue to the other end. I raise my hand to knock, and almost immediately, Teresa opens the door. “Come on. We’re gonna take a tour.”
“Anything to get out of this room,” she laughed, closing her door behind her, and we started heading down to Thomas’s room. “Do you know where?”
“Not exactly, but knowing the boys, it’s probably the ‘super-secret hiding place’ they found last week,” we laughed. “Did you get Thomas yet?”
“Yeah, he’s talking with Alby,” Minho answered, leading us over to the rest of the group. “Now, let’s go before someone sees us on the cameras.” Teresa walked ahead to meet up with the only other person she knew in the group while Minho and I stayed a few steps behind the rest. “Are we going to the place?”
“Yeah,” he responded, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “We’re gonna show them exactly what they are feeding.”
“Is that so?” Another voice asked, causing us all to stop as another group of WICKD workers came out from behind the corner we were about to cross. “Why don’t we show you what we’re trying to do?”
Without an escape, we all follow the workers, and we are met by a few other people at the elevators. I could only recognize two of them: Dr. Paige and Chancellor Anderson.
“We are going to show you exactly what we are keeping you safe from,” Dr. Paige explained.
“Oh, we finally get to know what happens when someone gets the flare?” Minho exclaimed sarcastically. “I’m shaking in my boots.”
I turned to slap his arm as we got into the elevator and went down. Chancellor Anderson and Dr. Paige just shook their heads in response as we rode down in silence. We just awkwardly looked around at each other. Despite having done this many times, this is the only time we have been caught. Probably because this was the first time we brought Thomas and Teresa with us. Finally, after what felt like forever, we stopped at the last level. Dr. Paige led us out with Alby, Minho and I walking out first while Thomas and Teresa followed behind us with Chancellor Anderson after them.
We walked down a dimly lit hall to a large metal door at the end. Thomas and Teresa were taken another way with Chancellor Anderson doing who knows what. Once we approached the door, Dr. Paige turned to us slowly as one of the workers began opening the door. “This will, hopefully, put into perspective what our mission is, and why we do what we do.”
“Keep your mouth shut, Min, and let’s just get this over with,” I stated, turning to send a glare at Minho before moving to go into the room first. I am immediately met with a large room that looked like a forest. The next thing I noticed was the groans. I looked to the side to see Randall Spilker. He had black veins spreading around his body, blood flowing from his mouth, and the tips of his fingers were gone. “What happened to him?”
“The flare,” Randall answered. “Don’t you understand? This is what they are keeping you safe from. They are trying to keep you safe from people like me. To find a cure.”
“It’s not like we were going to leave,” Alby responds.
“Yeah, we were going to show Thomas and Teresa all the work they’ve been putting into this place,” Minho added. “We saw those huge areas you’ve been building, and wanted to show them what’s been going on.”
“Minho, respectfully, shut up,” I hissed. His big mouth was going to get us into more trouble than we already were.
“All I’m doing is defending us,” He responded.
“And because we want to get our message across, Minho, why don’t I show you around this room first?” Randall offered.
“Is that even safe?” I nearly shouted.
“We would never let the cranks harm any of you,” Dr. Paige said. “However, we will throw you in to understand them.”
Before Alby or I could register what Dr. Paige said, two other workers pulled us back out of the room, leaving Minho with the cranks. Out of the room, down the hallway, and back to the elevator; we were dragged. Once in the lift, the workers pulled out these syringes before plunging them into our necks
~~
I wake with a start, tied down to a hospital bed in my old room. Thomas is next to me, shaking me awake. I groaned before squeezing my eyes closed to block out the white lights of the room. “What the shuck, Tom.” I slowly opened them again to take in the boy in front of me. He looked nothing like earlier. He looked a few years older. “How long was I out?”
“They’ve been keeping you in an induced coma for the past three years,” he explained. “They started sending people to the maze after you got caught. Alby went first, then Newt, Minho, Gally-”
“Hold up, what maze?” I was so confused. I could not register it all at once.
“The groups they separated us in. The gigantic structures in the basement. Those are mazes like the ones we did in class. They want to monitor our brainwaves to see if they can find a cure,” he explained once again.
“How do mazes and puzzles find a cure for a DNA-altering disease? Doesn’t that seem fishy to you?”
“That’s why I woke you up,” he whispered. “They don’t know. They gave me access to all floors and rooms once Teresa and I agreed to help them, and I need backup.”
“What kind of backup?”
“Okay, so I want you to find out exactly what they are doing with the tests,” he explained. “If anyone can figure it out, it’s you. Once you find the results and their intentions, we can get them out. You also need to hide from anyone besides me. Again, I’m the only one that knows you’re awake.”
“Got it.”
~~
It has been a few weeks of me sneaking around the facility, taking notes on every little thing I believe would be helpful to Thomas. I have been writing as much as I could, sliding the pages under his door, and hiding in one of the back closets.
Today, I was going to try and get down to the basement to see the mazes. Looking over the building plans, there was a small passage from the stairs to a platform that looks over one of the mazes. By the looks of it, it should be an easy thing, especially at night.
It was nearing midnight, and I know the majority of the staff is off to bed. I make my way down the never-ending staircases to reach the last floor before turning off towards a door that leads to the passage. The narrow hallway twisted into a spiral staircase. Once I got to the top, I opened the door to see a gigantic enclosed yard.
“Holy crap,” I whispered to myself as I looked at the field. From where I was standing, I could see a few people walking around the perimeter, and in those people, I saw Minho. It was him, Newt, Alby, Ben, and Gally. I had no clue what they were talking about but they were laughing at something, then Alby slapped the back of Minho’s head. I jotted some notes about what the place looked like and what they were doing into the notebook I snagged from one of the supply closets. I hid the book in the back of my shirt and turned to leave, but the sound of the passage door locking.
I took off running down the normal entrance/ exit stairs despite knowing it would be completely open; if I was going to get caught, I needed to make sure Thomas knew what was going on in the mazes. I took off running up the stairs, hearing the pounding of multiple sets of footsteps following behind me. I took a shortcut up to Thomas’ room. I needed to get these to him without the guards noticing.
I turned the corner to his room before throwing the entire notebook under the door and taking off toward the only exit I knew of. As I got to the last door, I opened it using a key card I had stolen from a desk, but when the door opened, I was met by Janson.
“Who woke you up?” He teased me. “Last I checked, you were unconscious.”
“I woke up myself, Ratman,” I laughed in response. “Just you wait until I tell everyone in this facility exactly what you are doing with us. I saw those grievers. You are literally trapping us and not letting us leave! I have seen seven people get killed by those grievers directly, and another ten from getting stung. I will make sure that everyone knows about the cruel punishments you put us through!”
“Maybe, but you’re not going to remember what you saw,” he responded. I was not able to respond before a doctor came up behind me and injected me with something.
~~
I couldn’t tell where I was. I couldn’t see, but I could tell that I was moving. Very fast at that. After my eyes adjusted to the dark area, I could make out that I was in a small room with boxes surrounding me. I went to go over to the crates but fell down as the room came to a sudden stop.
The top of the room opened, and I had to squint my eyes as the bright light evaded the area. Once I was able to see again, I noticed a group of guys huddled around the opening.
“What the shuck?” One said.
“Since when did they send girls here?” Another said.
“Oh great,” A third said with an eye roll, “stick her with Fry. I’m not dealing with her.”
“What is this place?” I asked. “Who are you?”
“You’ll learn with time, greenie,” The second guy said, jumping into the box. “I'm Alby. I run this place. It’s the Glade.”
“What did I miss?” A guy walked, more like limped, over from a building. “Wait, they sent a girl?”
“Yeah, Newt. What does that mean?” The first guy that spoke said.
“I don’t know,” Newt responded. He and the guy he was talking to walked over to the end, and the other jumped in with Alby and me while Newt stayed at the top.
“Minho, take her and show her around,” Alby commanded. Minho went to protest, but Alby stopped him. “Newt would, but his leg is still healing and walking ain’t doing him any good.”
“Fine, let’s go, greenie,” he huffed, climbing out of the box.
“Who are you calling greenie? What is a greenie?” I responded, following him out. “Last I checked my name was (Y/N).”
All of the guys gasped in surprise and started talking among themselves. Alby climbed out as well and pulled Newt into a side conversation while Minho just stared at me like I was crazy.
“You know your name? Already?” He asked, curious as to why the creators would send someone with at least partial memories.
“Yeah, you think I’m dumb?” I snapped.
“No, just no one remembers anything when they get here,” he snapped as well. “And until you can prove that you’re not useless, you’ll just be weak to me.”
~~
It has been a few months in the glade. I have not remembered anything other than my name, but I moved past that in order to prove myself to these boys. The only people in this place that did not question my worth were Alby and Newt even though I have worked my way up to being a builder and occasional runner.
Minho had some weird vendetta against me. He thinks I am out to get him or something stupid like that. It’s almost like he doesn't understand that I am just doing my part.
“Why don’t you let the stronger guys take care of that,” Minho sneered, poking at the fact that I was carrying wood to the area where we would have the bonfire. “Look like you’re struggling there, shank.”
“Minho, respectfully, shut up,” I growled, “Let me do my job in peace. I don’t run into the maze to bug you.”
“Hmmm, yeah you do.”
“Not on days that I’m not allowed,” I snapped. “Even then I’m not near you and Ben. I’m off on my own.”
“Hey, (Y/N), get back to work,” Gally shouted, “Those logs ain’t gonna move themselves.”
I was about to respond when the box sounded that a new shipment was in as well as a new greenie. We all went to crowd around the box, and when it opened, I recognized the person. I could not say from where, but his face looked familiar. He didn’t give anyone a chance to say anything before he jumped out of the box and bolted towards the doors of the maze. Minho and I took after him, but we didn’t need to run for long as the greenie tripped. Once we got him into the slammer, I knew I wanted to talk to Alby about making him a runner.
“That’s a suggestion you need to bring up with Minho,” Alby said. “It’s his section.”
“You know he’d never listen to me,” I started. “Plus, he’d never let a newbie into the maze.”
“Here, we will have a meeting, and we’ll vote on it.”
~~
“No.”
“We already voted, and we need more runners,” I reasoned. “You’re not even running with him. I’m the only one that doesn’t have a partner.”
“Still, I’m the keeper of the runners, so I get the final say, and I said no,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Just let it go, and leave me alone.”
“I’ll leave you alone when you respect democracy, you slinthead.” I continued following him as we approached the bonfire. Gally was already throwing hands with Ben, Winston and Fry already had Gally’s concoction and Newt was talking with the greenie. “All I’m saying is to give him a chance.”
“Fine, he got one day to prove himself, and I’m not handling him, is that clear?”
“Crystal,” I spat with a tight-lipped smile before turning away from Minho to approach Newt and greenie. However, the greenie was being pulled into the ring by the time I got to them. I looked over to Newt to see him looking nervous. “This is initiation. He’ll be fine.”
“Were you able to talk sense into Minho?”
“Yup, he’s got one day to prove himself,” I stopped, hearing someone hit the dirt. I saw the new guy on the ground, but he did not get up right away. Just as Newt and I were about to react, he jumped up screaming his name.
“Thomas!” He exclaimed. “My name is Thomas!”
~~
“Alright, Thomas,” I paused out of breath. We had just gotten closed into the maze with Minho and Alby. Minho and Alby ran together today since Ben was sung yesterday, but now, Alby was also stung. No one had ever been locked in the maze, and now the four of us had to survive together. “We just killed ourselves.”
“No, I’ve got an idea,” Thomas started.
“Thomas, no,” Minho snapped, propping Alby against the wall. “We are dead. There is no way we can survive the night with the grievers and Alby being stung. We. Are. Dead.”
“No, I have an idea. We could tie Alby to the vines and hang him up,” Thomas explained as he pointed up the wall. “We just need to work together.”
“Thomas, hate to break it to you, but Minho hates both of us,” I responded bluntly. “So while I might help and it might work, there is no way we would ever work together.”
With that, Thomas and I started wrapping the vines around Alby. We worked together to secure the vines and pull to hang him at a safe height. All the while, Minho sat and watched. Just as we finished, the sound of gears and scraping got louder, almost as if it were right around the corner. Once we secured Alby in the air, we took off in different directions instead of sticking together.
I could not tell how long I had been running, but eventually, I found a cliff and a small hiding place. I threw myself into the hole as the griever came around the corner. Thankfully, it did not see me, but another set of footsteps turned around the corner. It was Minho, but the next thing I knew, the griever was on top of him.
I did not really want to help him since he would not do the same if I was in his shoes, but I also could not let him just get stung. Thus, I jumbled out of the hole, grabbed a vine, and whipped it at the griever. “Over here, griever!” I shouted.
Minho had already been stung, but he looked over at me with a glazed look before passing out as the griever walked up to me.
“I clearly did not think this through,” I mumbled to myself as I took off running in the other direction. I, quite literally, ran into Thomas before scrambling to get up, pulling him with me. “Run!”
“What?” He trailed off but followed closely behind once he saw the griever on my tail. We ended up splitting up, me going right, and Thomas going left. I ended up doing a circle which worked out since I was able to get Minho hidden in the hole, so he would not die. He stirred as I dragged his body toward the hiding space, and he started mumbling pieces of a conversation but still not opening his eyes.
“Golden four,” he muttered. I listened curiously as there was a break, but he picked up after a second, almost as if he was having a real conversation. “Split us into groups…Sneaking into the girls’ room every night…I literally eat with you at every meal.”
That last sentence sparked something in my mind, it was like the floodgates opened, and it’s like I could remember most of my life before this maze. I do not remember specifics, but I do remember running around a huge facility with a small group of people. There were three boys, Newt. Alby and Minho, and one girl. We would cause trouble in the cafeteria, roan the halls, and run from guards. That was about as specific as I could get.
Leaving Minho where he was, I took off to find Thomas. Finding him relatively quickly with a griever pinning him down, I grabbed a vine yet again to whip at the machine. This time, instead of it just coming back at me, the vine wrapped itself around the legs of the griever and tripped it. Thomas scrambled from underneath it to stand beside me as the griever began tearing through the vines. It stood menacingly in front of us before, almost like a switch, just turning around, and leaving us without a thought.
“Minho got stung,” I told him as we started walking back to the doors. “I hid him.”
“Why would you do that? Not to be mean or anything, but you guys hate each other," Thomas asked as we dragged Minho out of the hiding spot. “He would’ve just let you did probably.”
“Regardless of our hatred, I am not letting anyone die in this maze. Not on my watch,” I replied seriously as we approached the doors that were just opening. We propped Minho against the wall as we got Alby down. Thomas carried Alby while I dragged Minho closer to the doors as they finished opening, and every glader was standing, waiting for us. I leaned closer to Thomas, whispering, “I’m not a monster.”
~~
It’s been nearly a week since we got out of the maze. Three days since we got out of the glade. Minho and Alby survived, but Gally and Chuck died on our way out. Now, we were all separated, well most of us were. The boys got to stick together, and Teresa and I stuck together. I’ve got a bad feeling about her, but I’m apparently the only one.
Minho, on the other hand, has been avoiding me like the plague. I know he’s asking about me because Thomas and Newt still talk to me, but anytime Minho sees me around them, he turns the other way. I want to know what he remembered, but I know that is something he would never tell me.
One night, I got curious. I wanted to know where the “safe” people were going, so I stole a key card and snuck through the vents to reach the backrooms. I was not expecting to see hundreds of teenagers strung up, hooked up to a multitude of machines. I found a couple of loose guns, so I grabbed those, hoping the guys would bust out with me. If not, oh well, I have a weapon now. I crawled through the vents to reach the boys’ room. I heard them talking quietly, so I waited for a break in the conversation.
“You’re not making any sense,” Newt said. “What do you mean you remember her?”
“When I got stung, I remembered a conversation and we were talking about a merge,” Minho explained. “Like I think we were here for a long time and then the WICKED people put us into the groups. Y’know, Group A and Group B, but she should’ve been in Group B. Why was she in our group?”
“We do not have time to focus on that,” Thomas reasoned. “We need to figure out exactly how you know Y/n and how we get out of here. Seriously, I have a bad feeling.”
“I think we were together,” Minho mumbled. The rest of the guys gasped, and I let out one quietly to myself. None of them heard it as they continued the conversation. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Well, how do you feel?” Newt pressed. “You wouldn’t be so caught up if you didn’t feel something for her.”
“Maybe I do!” Minho exclaimed. “She literally saved my life, but she hates me.”
“Minho, trust me,” Thomas speaks up, “she does not hate you. When she was talking about saving you in the maze, she did not look like she hated you. There’s no way.” It went silent for a while, so I decided to put aside my shock and make an appearance. I knocked on their vent. I could hear them jump before Thomas lifted it. “Oh, what’re you doing here?”
“You won’t believe me, but we need to get out of here. Now,” I pressed. “They’re stringing us up. There is no safe haven. They’re killing us.”
Running through the halls with Ratman chasing me did not bring up the best memories. I remembered waking up after Minho was sent up to the maze, and Thomas recruited me. Not the best time, but I pushed through. At one point, I tripped. I thought I was dead. However, to my shock, someone stopped.
“You’re not dying on me. I won’t let you go now that I remember,” Minho. It was Minho. It’s always been Minho.
~~~
Part 2 ->
~~~~~
© BAD268 2022. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.
#the maze runner#tmr minho x reader#tmr minho#the maze runner x reader#the maze runner minho#the maze runner minho x reader#bad268#ship268#thing268
469 notes
·
View notes
Text
Nesting Fears
I made this fic based off my dear friend @yys002's art! Check out her blog(the art below is hers)
He was walking in a dream, fading memories echoing around his lucid consciousness.
There were voices around every corner, whispers of his loved ones, honeycomb promises behind unending walls. He was trapped in the manor, wandering up and down its lonely halls.
Dick tried to enjoy the experience, a sleep beyond nightmares was rare for him, if he remembered it at all. Life had thrown him too many dangers to rest softly, though he’d come to terms with that reality long ago. He was too proud of his life; what with the people he’d helped, the lives he’d saved, the friends met.
He missed his parents more than the world, but if they were forever doomed to die—-there was nowhere else Dick would rather be. Being Robin honored their memory in a way that doing circus tours for the rest of his life never could, to turn his tragedy into a force for good--Dick knew they’d approve.
So why did he feel so uncertain? Why was he so afraid?
Dick put his hand on the shadowed wall, his fingers flat against the ancient timber. A sigh of passive exasperation left his incorporeal form, the strain of his worries weighing harder on the young vigilante than any physical hardship. The manor had contorted a direction through his memories, winding corridors of past glories and future anxieties.
It’d taken him through miles of it, or so Dick assumed. Dreams tended to play fast and loose with reality, the forest infinitely more important than the trees. Dick just wished he’d wake up already, but it seemed that wasn’t what his subconscious had in mind.
The room shifted around him, a blurring mass of colors and whirring sounds that passed as soon as it arrived. Dick didn’t feel alerted by this special change like he would in the real world, staying in a plain state of confused discomfort.
He recognized the room he’d landed in immediately, foreboding sinking into his chest like poisonous worry. Cautious in his step, he approached the lone statue-head in the center of the rectangular room--more fit to be a windowed coffin than a place for the living.
The marble carved features of Thomas Wayne stared back at him, set on a similarly expensive pillar-- confirming Dick’s worst suspicions.
This was Bruce’s study.
There was history to the room, an importance that lent it a weight closer to crime alley than simply a place where the Wayne family liked to read. Bruce had told Dick close to everything there was to know about his mission, about Batman, including where he’d originally gotten the inspiration for it.
Dick looked back to the head of Thomas Wayne, the stone where his pupils should be staring daggers into his being. Righteous judgment radiated off it like smoke from an SOS flare, a wordless indignation towards Dick being in his presence.
“I don’t know what you want from me, I don’t even know why I’m here,” Dick said, disregarding the insanity of choosing to talk to a lifeless statue. He chose to not look it in the eyes, opening the curtains to observe the rolling greens of the Wayne estate.
Dick tried to enjoy the view, his mind’s admittedly imperfect recollection of his childhood home, as the imaginary sun slowly rose on the distant horizon. He closed his eyes, grasping at some sense of peace in the half nightmare around him.
“You know exactly why you’re here, boy.”
Gone as soon as it came, the silence overtaking the room shattered, the rumbling baritone of a voice unknown acting like a sledgehammer thrown across softened glass. It’d caught Dick off guard at first; as deep and guttural as trigon, the avalanche-like vibrations of each enunciated word a death sentence in its own right.
He looked to his left; at the only thing he could imagine as the source of the noise.
The Statue spoke again, it’s stoic expression unmoving, it’s lips motionless:
“Bruce should have never let you join his crusade, a child has no place in war.”
Dick gritted his teeth, aggravation flaring like hot fire within him, figment of his imagination or not--hearing the same tired spiel of Bruce’s boneheaded arguments made him want to scream.
“Oh put a sock in it, rock pile,” Dick said, looking the statue dead-on, “If you can’t even come up with your own points, then there’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind.”
A laugh roared through the air, it’s intensity like an earthquake to a withered coffin; shaking the room so violently as to carve gaps in the floorboards and throw books from their shelves.
Dick struggled to stay afoot, his trained grace doing little in the fantasy of the dream.
“And yet you argue with me still!” The Statue laughed, “I’m not here to convince you of anything, little bird--only to remind you of a truth you so pathetically avoid.”
The condescending tone clicked all the wrong buttons for Dick, draining his vast well of patience to an exceedingly shrinking pool of agitation. He wanted to be as far away from the manor as possible. He’d prefer the worst patrols in Gotham, the deadliest missions with the titans, at least then he’d be doing something productive.
Not this.
“And what truth is that, oh hallowed prophet?” Dick leered, sarcasm etching his sentence’s end, “Go on, what cold truth do I need repeated? What wise wisdom of the batman have I forgotten? Is the eighteen-year-old apprentice still too young to be taken seriously?
The Statue remained impassive at the surface, betraying the hostility it so flagrantly spoke with, “Quite the opposite in fact. You are an apprentice in name alone, what use does Bruce have for a student he cannot teach, nor listens to his orders?”
It pained Dick to admit, but the statue, whatever part of his mind it represented, was right. Bruce and him didn’t need one another anymore, and that was a knife to his heart that kept on twisting. He was quiet for a tense few seconds, his fists balled and breathing slow.
“Batman and Robin are partners, we’re a team...he knows that,” Dick muttered, his hot anger turned to frigid vulnerability.
He waited for a response, the risen moon beaming through the glass, shining bright his open fear.
“Nothing lasts forever, even the brightest stars fade,” The Statue said, “Bruce knows this more than anyone, as should you.”
Dick tilted his head, disbelief plastered across his face, “We don’t just lay down and accept it! Bruce calling us quits isn’t gonna stop me from helping people. I’m not a kid anymore, I can make my own decisions.”
“I find that hard to believe, boy wonder, when you spend so much of your time tracing his footsteps,” The Statue said, holding it’s views like a scalpel to Dick’s life, “Robin is no more his own hero then when you were eight years old, or leading a team of second-rate sidekicks that pales in comparison to what your mentor helped create.”
The insult at the Titans salted the already bleeding wound, Dick’s emotions bubbled to a chaotic boiling point--no one hit his friends without going through him first.
“Keep the Titans out of this, or I’ll kick you off that pillar myself! We’ve earned our place, time and time again,” Dick said, his volume nearing a yell.
The statue didn’t waver, if it was bothered by Dick’s threat--it hid that fact well.
“Your defensiveness merely emphasizes my point,” The Statue explained.
Dick’s squinted his eyes, his stance tense and rigid.
The Statue continued to elaborate, dispassionate as always, “What is the tale of a squire without their knight? What is a son who never surpasses the father? You must grow beyond these trappings of youth, not retreat within them.”
“Robin is my creation though,” Dick stressed, motioning his palms to his chest, “It’s the last thing I have of my parents, of my history...Who am I without it?”
The question elicited a hum of laughter from the statue, baritone and rebounding, though without malice, for once. Dick’s cheeks flushed red, embarrassment at his open vulnerability like salt on a bleeding wound.
“Am I to hear that the Flying Grayson is afraid to take a leap of faith? Is it not defiance of fear that creates the heroics you so revel in?”
Dick sheepishly rubbed his arm, “Well when you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“The path you walk, you’ve known it’s course for far longer than your visit here,” The statue said, “The confusion you face in regards to the future is temporary, if you still have the bravery to persist.”
“Then what is this conversation supposed to be?” Dick asked. “My subconscious motivating me to keep going?”
The Statue said plainly it’s clarification, “Close, but no cigar. That moment will come in a short while; any moment now, actually.”
Dick shook his head, puzzled and uneased, “And what that’s supposed to be?”
“A taste of skies yet flown. You’ll see.”
Before Dick had the chance of questioning the statue’s cryptic answer, an invisible force had thrown him on his back; the shrill cry of a beast sounding life or death danger in his pained eardrums.
He struggled to regain his composure, his heart-rate jumping to his throat as he watched spider webbing cracks infect the floorboards; the noise of the unknown beast quickly reducing the room to literal splinters.
The dream was quickly becoming a nightmare, that much was plain to see. Dick swallowed the lump in his throat, the primal fear heightened by the reality around him coursing shivers from head to toe. He pushed past it, the courage of all his years dancing away from death’s grip reminding him of his true strength.
Dick pulled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth in concentration. Real or not; He’d never turn tail from danger, nor the future. The view from the window pane had brightened to an immeasurable degree, a near blinding wall of sunlight swallowing the space that the manor’s land had formerly occupied.
Another cry broke the air, just as earsplitting and hope-stopping as the last, but this time Dick could see the source...and it was flying right at him.
The creature was monstrous, an ever changing avian patchwork of leather-stitched sinew and brown and gray feathers. The details to its appearances were like a mirage, changing at the slightest glance, blending into a variety of patterns in the seconds of it’s current flight path.
Dick watched the bird in amazement, aware of the danger it presented and finding himself unable to move; completely mesmerized and terrified in equal measure. It molted it’s feathers to new patterns in ways that made Dick want to jump out the window and join it.
It roared again, it’s callous beak now a rallying cry for a cause that Dick felt deep in his heart. He blinked and it’s coat had darkened from the humble colors of the robin; the kiss of a midnight river drenching it’s dozen foot wide wingspan, adorning sleek slings of golden pride on it’s chest.
There was beauty in the change, the transformations from one mode to another. For every reinvention there was horror lost, a terror thrown aside. Dick couldn’t help but admire that, envy it’s adaptation to something more.
Dick blinked again, the large talons of the bird mere inches away from the fragile glass.
It’d changed once more, molting it’s dreamlike austerity to streamlined nobility. Darkness drenched it’s form, the touch of the space holding stars; yet it did not consume it. There was light in it’s eyes, grandness in it’s purpose, freedom in it’s flight--Dick looked into the brilliant sapphire streaking it’s breast and found hope, not despair.
He found a symbol he could believe in, a soul that longed to soar as much as his own.
Dick had found something more valuable than anything in the skies and wonders above.
As the glass shattered, and the bird’s mighty talons embraced him--Dick understood what it was.
And he was never letting go.
#dc comics#dc fanfic#dc fic#reflection#robin!dick#dc robin#robin#dick grayson#batman#batfam#sorta#sorta batfam#one shot#made for my lovely artist friend#light angst#angst#this references batman year one#i thought it was neat#the comparison#kovac fic
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
I had to read the maze runner for school and-
It's objectively a bad book?
This is only about the book, not the movie, and it's only the first book. Ok? Ok.
Thomas is too perfect. The only bad thing about him is that he used to be "evil", and even then he was forced to and you sympathize with him. The changing means nothing to him because it means nothing in general. It's just a "turn crazy" card. It's literally the Flare (which doesn't make sense in itself because if a solar flare actually hit the earth it wouldn't cause disease, but it's science fiction so I'll let it pass) but for the Glade and it gives people memories. Go back and reread it, it's not consistent. Ben was grotesque but Alby wasn't? And then Thomas had a peaceful but kinda nightmarish nap?
And then he wakes up and Zart is dead. AND IT DOESN'T MATTER. He's never mentioned again. He doesn't matter. Albys death? Ultimately doesn't matter. Because his sacrifice wasn't one, it was an excuse for him to kill himself. And even then it doesn't work. It was worthless for no reason. And we don't sympathize for him because all he has done was be mean to Thomas. If I had written it, he would've died instead of Chuck and had more nice moments with Thomas. GIVE THE BOOK DEPTH.
I don't care that anyone died because we didn't have enough time with them. So at least don't have a character die for shock value wtf? It's so pointless. And the lack of female characters my god. I get that's the point but even them, once Theresa showed up I forget she existed. Why? I didn't care about her. Anything she could do Thomas could do better. She was a plot device, not a character.
It reminds me of Harry Potter. Cjs white straight male protagonist with a destiny to save the world or a society, with a power nobody else has (even though it doesn't mean anything), not so great world building, making everyone else an idiot to make the biggest idiot seem smart (like come on, what do you mean the runners couldn't solve the maps in 2 years but Thomas solves it in a week?). Great characters that get discarded in favour of worse characters, misuse of plot devices, it's so similar it's scary.
And they are both popular.
Write better books. Pls I just want good literature.
Or
Schools. Let kids truly analyze books, because I would write one hell of an essay about ethics, gender, and race within this book.
#maze runner#the maze runner#books and reading#books#book analysis#analysis#hot take#its not even funny#its so bad#i hated it i just wanted to read c&p or bsd light novels#heyyy#editing the tags to clarify something:#i was very dramatic while writing this#if you like this series then good! like books!#i just personlaly didn't like it#peope have pointed out that death IS meaningless in this series#which i do get like i understand zart and ablys death#i can get down with that#the point I was trying to say is that *I* felt there was no depth to that fact#that thomas doenst seem to have much confliction about this#but again#i only read the first book and i have a predisposition to not like it bc of what i do like#i might ask my friend who has read them all to give me her take#ok thank you!#and thanks to all the peope who replied or reposted with more info <3#THE ITS OBJECTIVELY BAD THING WAS A JOKE IM SOERY IM BAD AT THAT TYPO STUFF
22 notes
·
View notes
Text
SPOILER WARNING: I have been a maze runner fan for a while now, but I only just finished the fever code. Can I just say, WOW. I did not expect the ending at all. And now I'm questioning if teresa had her memories the entire time. Also AVA FRICKING PAIGE, I thought she was the least awful person. What on EARTH. You're telling me if it wasn't for her the trials would have ended at the maze. What the actuall- SERIOSLY?!?! I don't even know how to feel now.
I can't believe Ava Paige would stoop so low as to give someone the flare. She's such a manipulative hypocrite. Who gives someone a disease you're trying to cure, WHO?! "I love you two like my on children" seriously. Idk about you, but in my books lying to and dragging your child isn't loving them. And why use Thomas's email without permission in order to get what you want. At first I thought Ava being in charge would be for the best, I was wrong. Man, atleast in the end in the death cure she actually helped them escape to the safe haven, YEARS after Anderson legit said it himself. Holy shuck.
#the maze runner#the scorch trials#death cure#fever code#ava paige#teresa agnes#thomas#newt#chuck#minho#frypan#alby#gally#aris#rachel
55 notes
·
View notes
Text
On Impulse
(Maxwell Beaumont x OC) in a Choices The Royal Romance drabble
Thirty Kisses in Thirty Days Challenge with the prompt: a playful kiss given between laughter
Choices May Monthly Challenge: childhood friends | falling in love | holding hands
Rating G for fluff
@hopelessromantic1352 @twinkleallnight @tessa-liam @kingliam2019 @krsnlove @choicesficwriterscreations @fullbeaumonty @choiceschallenge-may2023 @jerzwriter
A/N Once upon a time (September of 2018 to be precise. Where has the time gone?!), I created my OC, Amanda Bridgerton, for Maxwell Beaumont in my first ever fanfic. About a year or so later I realized (along with many others in the fandom) through writing an angsty fic for the two that she was better suited for Thomas Hunt. So when I got this request from @twinkleallnight to reunite these two for a kiss challenge, it brought me back to all the times I wrote about Maxwell and Amanda secretly crushing on each other. So for this fic, Mr. Hunt is nowhere around to tempt her away from her love for Maxwell 😂😉
Masterlist
It was tiring being the proper, must always act a certain way noble. To have everyone watching and judging your every move, word you said, and even the way you dressed got old pretty fast.
It was only the first week of the social season and Maxwell was already exhausted.
"What's wrong?"
He looked up at Amanda.
"Nothing." He mumbled.
"It certainly doesn't look like nothing." She teased, poking him in his ticklish ribs.
He grinned at her. Leave it to his best friend to always know when he wasn't quite himself.
"Aren't you tired of this?" He whispered.
"Tired of what?"
"This." He gestured at the banquet hall filled to the brim with nobles and diplomats gathered together to celebrate King Constantine's wedding anniversary.
"I don't understand." Her brow furrowed. "Are you talking about the food or the company?"
"All of it!" He slumped back against a wall.
He couldn't help but think how much easier life used to be when he was younger. He was able to run around and do whatever he wanted with his friends without worry of the consequences. He typically had the woman next to him on many of his wild jaunts throughout the years. Come to think of it, most of his happiest memories included Amanda.
"I wish we were still children." He mumbled
She laughed, shaking her head at the memories that statement brought to mind. "I don't."
"You don't?"
"Maxwell," she huffed, "I was the most awkward girl in Cordonia. I was unfortunately born both clumsy and shy."
She winked at him. "Now I'm somewhat of a capable adult who might still be clumsy but can at least maintain a conversation without wanting to duck under a table."
He chuckled, slipping his arm around her shoulders.
"You weren't shy. You were simply quiet."
"I was always overthinking things." Amanda pointed out. "I still do, but I hide it better than I did when we were young."
"I could always tell when you were." Maxwell squeezed her close. "You chewed your bottom lip when overthinking."
She gently elbowed him. "Thanks for the reminder."
"You still do that, by the way." He whispered loudly.
She bit down on her bottom lip out of habit while fighting back a smile.
"Must you watch me all the time, Lord Beaumont?"
"I must, your grace." He dropped his arm, slipping his hand in hers. "How else can I make sure my best friend is enjoying herself?"
"You could simply ask me."
"True. But where's the fun in that?"
"Alright, Maxwell. Since you claim to know my tells so well. What am I feeling right now?"
She reluctantly pulled her hand away while turning to face him. Amanda cocked her head at an angle as she looked up at him. Her large hazel eyes held his ocean blue ones. A well practiced court smile was on her lips as she loosely clasped her hands together.
He lowered his head level with hers and narrowed his eyes in thought.
Amanda felt her cheeks flare with color over the intense way he studied her face.
Maxwell slowly smiled at the effect he had over her.
"I know what you need."
"You do?" She unconsciously bit down on her bottom lip.
His eyes darted down to her mouth, noticing the tell immediately.
"What is going through that mind of yours?" He asked, mostly to himself.
She averted her eyes, blushing all the more. If he only knew the thoughts she had about him, this would be a completely different conversation.
Amanda cleared her throat. "I believe you said you know what I need."
Maxwell grasped her hand again before sneaking quietly out of the room.
"Where are we going?" She asked.
"Out." He declared, briefly nodding to the footman who held a side door open for them.
"I gathered that." Amanda said drily. "But where specifically."
"We are going to get a breath of fresh air and see what wild notion comes over us." Maxwell decided.
"We are?"
"We are."
She couldn't help but smile over how determined he sounded. If there was one thing she could always depend on, it was Maxwell Beaumont living life on impulse alone.
"Now what?" She asked once they were far enough away from the palace.
His brow furrowed in thought as he considered their surroundings. There was the hedge maze where they used to play hide and seek with Liam, Drake, and Olivia. There was also the royal orchard where they long ago held their races and games of tag. Then there was the pond where they used to jump into the frigid water with their clothes on.
Maxwell wondered if she'd still be game to go swimming.
He cut his eyes to Amanda the moment she let go of his hand. She lifted both her hands to try and repin the strands of hair that had become loose from her formal updo. He remembered all the years she allowed the heavy dark brown mass to hang freely down her back. As a little boy who was completely head over heels for her, he'd loved to playfully pull it.
Now as a man, he would love to thread his fingers through it while his lips touched her--
"What?" She asked when she noticed him staring at her.
Maxwell felt heat creep up his neck.
He coughed and refocused on the landscape. "Nothing."
He glanced at her again to see her still struggling with her hair. On impulse, he reached over and pulled a few strategically placed pins free. He threw them as far as he could from where they were standing.
"Maxwell!" She cried out when her hair tumbled down past her shoulders. "Now what am I going to do?! I can't return to dinner looking like this!"
"Sorry." His unrepentant grin flashed at her.
"Liar." She couldn't stop herself from grinning at him. "You do realize that now that you made me unpresentable, you'll be forced to spend the rest of the night with me."
He reached up and tucked a windblown lock behind her ear. "I can live with that."
She stilled at the touch of his fingers grazing down her cheek.
Their eyes met.
Neither was sure what to do about the feelings the other caused. Of course, neither one knew how much the other would love it if they made the first move.
Amanda broke eye contact first.
"Should we go for a walk?"
"Um. Sure."
Maxwell's hand found hers once more.
He realized he did it without thinking. He'd always taken her hand since they were children. She had truly been a clumsy little girl and as her best friend, he felt he had to help keep her upright. He'd ignored the snickers and teasing from the other children and continued to hold Amanda's hand whenever they walked or ran about.
It was a habit he'd never broken, one he hoped to never break.
Amanda didn't seem to mind when he did so, which was a relief. He doubted he'd be able to stop something that was now like breathing to him.
"Oh!" She stumbled, losing her shoe.
Maxwell caught her before she fell.
"I got you!" He grasped her arms.
She blew a lock of hair out of her face while holding tight to him.
"Thank you." She twisted around to see her high heel stuck in a soft patch of grass. "Word to the wise. Do not wear Louboutins while trekking through the wild."
He chuckled and knelt down to help her slip her shoe back on.
"There we go, Cinderella." He teased.
"Please." She scoffed. "We both know I'm not princess fairy tale material."
"What makes you say that?"
"For one thing, look at me. Do I honestly look like something that would make a man scour a kingdom to find again, much less fall in love at first sight?"
Maxwell was more than ready to answer that question in great detail.
And," she continued unaware that he was ready to tell her what he really thought about her, "there are two single princes in that palace. Neither have ever looked at me like Prince Charming did Cinderella."
Maxwell gazed up at her. "Do you want Leo and Liam to look at you like that?"
Amanda realized her joke was being taken seriously. She couldn't recall a time where Maxwell's voice and manner had ever been so somber.
"I adore them both and they are definitely charming and handsome." She hesitated before adding, "but, I don't think I want either of them to be interested in me like that."
Maxwell quietly got to his feet, dusted his knees off, and took her hand once more.
She didn't like how serious he seemed. The dark clouds building overhead had nothing on the expression on his face.
Amanda decided to get him back in that playful, spontaneous frame of mind.
She pulled her hand from his and tapped his shoulder.
"Tag! You're it!" She exclaimed before she took off running.
Maxwell stared in disbelief at her kicking her shoes off and hiking her skirt well above her knees. It took him a few more seconds to react, giving her enough time to disappear in the apple orchard.
He took off after her.
Once he got to the last place he saw her, he stopped and looked around.
He tried to listen for any footsteps or the rustlings of her ball gown.
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the area falling swiftly into darkness as more clouds rolled in. The wind picked up with the smell of rain permeating the air.
"Okay!" He called out. "I give up! Where are you?"
Silence answered him.
He dropped his head back.
"I'm serious! You're the winner, Amanda! Where did you go?"
Maxwell folded his arms.
"Come on, Amanda! Why won't you--"
He yelped when she dropped down from a nearby apple tree branch.
"Hah!" She took off running again before he could grab her.
"I've got you now!" He caught up to her fast, embracing her from behind.
Amanda squealed when he lifted her off the ground, laughing even harder when he began to tickle her.
"Max, no--stop--have mercy" She doubled over trying to escape him. "Please! Uncle!"
His hands stilled their torture.
Amanda managed to catch her breath, her smile was still peeping out at him as she tried to right her appearance.
Maxwell reached out to pluck a stray leaf from her hair.
"Thank you." She grinned at him. "Now m'lord, if you would be so kind as to assist me in finding where I left my shoes, I--"
He held them up in front of her.
She reached for them, only for Maxwell to lift them higher.
"What are you doing?" She asked with a giggle.
"Keeping you here." He replied. "With your hair down and no shoes on, there's no way you can return to the palace until everyone has gone to bed."
He had a smug expression on his face.
"Can you imagine the gossip if you did show up looking like a lady who rolled around in the dirt?"
"Dirt?!" She pulled a small compact from her pocket and checked her appearance. A bit of dirt touched on one cheek while another spot was directly over her left eyebrow.
"Good heavens!" She tried to wipe it off.
"Here, let me." Maxwell used his pocket square to gently clean her face.
Another round of laughter slipped out.
"What's so funny?" He asked.
"I was thinking what Uncle Nicky would say if he was to see us right now." She giggled again.
Maxwell chuckled at the thought of what fun loving Nicholas Bridgerton would think of them running around like children.
"He'd probably be proud of us for cutting loose."
"Probably."
Amanda began to squirm the longer Maxwell cleaned her face.
"I don't believe I am that dirty." She teased.
His eyes met hers. His dimples deepened with another grin.
"It's difficult to clean with no water at hand."
"We could always sneak back inside and--"
The clouds opened up.
The two looked up at the rain falling then at each other. Within seconds they were drenched.
And they couldn't stop laughing at the state they were both in. After all, they were supposed to be two respectable nobles of Cordonia. One look at them now and no one would believe that.
Maxwell still had her face cupped in his hands. On impulse, he leaned forward and kissed her, smothering her laughter for a brief moment.
He could feel her still shake with laughter as her arms slipped around his neck. He smiled against her lips as the brief kiss came to an end.
Amanda looked up at him, her own smile bright with wonder.
Maxwell lifted her off the ground, swinging her in a circle as the rain continued to fall.
She giggled, holding tight to him.
Once he set her back on the ground, she tugged him back down for a deeper kiss.
He sank into her embrace, glorying in feeling her lips part under his urging. Their tongues tangled, causing them both to move closer to the other.
"We should do that more often." Maxwell said a touch breathlessly.
"I think so too." Amanda pressed another sweet kiss to his lips, letting them linger there as she spoke. "In fact, I think it should become our new way to play together."
"So like tag but instead of tapping each other with our hands, we use our mouths?" He teased in the midst of kissing down her neck.
She laughed while nodding her head.
"Then tag," he dipped her while kissing her once more, "you're it."
#thirty kisses in thirty days#choices the royal romance#trr maxwell#maxwell beaumont#maxwell x oc#maxwell x amanda#choices trr#choices fic writers creations#trr#the royal romance
38 notes
·
View notes
Text
The latest installment of my unintentional series of analyses of narration in 1990s solo comics of teenage heroes (Part 1: Tim & Kon & Bart and Part 2: Grant): Ray, who has two solos.
The 1992 miniseries is short on narration. It usually occurs very briefly at the beginning of each issue to set the scene. But what there is a lot of are thought bubbles for Ray, which keep the reader on track with his running commentary on life, and first-person accounts from the characters themselves. At the beginning, Ray relates his life story to a cousin he has just met, he first learns a piece of the truth about his past from his dying foster father/uncle, and his actual father tells various versions of his history which may or may not be true. The subjectivity of these stories is important to the narrative, with its themes of hidden truths and being kept in the dark (both literally and figuratively). None of these narrators are fully reliable, for various reasons.
Ray's understanding of his past is limited by how little he knows and what he can or can't remember, and the visuals sometimes juxtapose what actually happened with his hazy memories. (He says he can't remember what happened to end his eighth birthday party so abruptly; the art reveals that he had a flare-up of his powers when a camera flash went off.)
Thomas Terrill, the uncle whom Ray believed was his father, tells a story on his deathbed that is presented as his own history but is in fact about his brother. Yet...he never really says that he did or experienced anything in this account. Every sentence begins with a verb, no specific pronoun subject. Things like "Quit...didn't want the burden...wanted a normal life...a family." Never "I quit..." Because he didn't. This is a story about Ray's real father, a completely different man.
...whose own accounts range from claiming that he is "not of this world" and that Ray is thus half-alien (a blatant lie) to a more detailed and relatively plausible-sounding scientific background of how he acquired his powers. He doles out information as he finds it convenient, and the frustrating inconsistency establishes him as less than trustworthy.
Narration is more at the forefront of The Ray 1994, the longer-running series. In previous analyses, I've focused on the association of the narrator with a guiding/parental voice for the young protagonist. Ray's stories are frequently told in first-person, usually by him. Like Tim, he is telling his own story because he doesn't have a solid parental presence in his life and thus has to be his own guiding voice. Of all the young heroes whose solos I've read, Ray is the most introspective, more so than even Tim. He's constantly in his own head, observing, overthinking, getting emotional. The greater thoughtfulness can be partly credited to the fact that he's older than the protagonists of comparable books--eighteen and later nineteen, technically a young adult although still a teenager. But his upbringing has left him very internally-focused too. He has grown up isolated, spending his time reading and watching TV and tinkering with computers. There were very people around to talk to, and even fewer with whom he could open up. Interacting with the outside world is strange and foreign, so he has a very active inner life instead.
And yet he still longs for connection, which is where the narrative device of the earlier issues comes into it. Ray met Dinah Lance one (1) time, developed a crush on her, and has started writing her unsolicited letters in which he pours out his soul to her, relating every detail of recent adventures, every difficult emotion and insecurity. Even as he overshares, though, he self-censors sometimes to put himself in a better light (as in his account of his encounter with Kon, which opens the series). The letters are very revealing of his character and allow the reader to not only get in his head but understand how he wishes to be perceived. The letters to Dinah come to an end for plot-relevant reasons, so the narration style takes a different turn, but always we are given access to Ray's thoughts so it's as if he is narrating indirectly.
The lack of a third-person narrator for Ray's POV underscores how lacking he is in guidance, as I said earlier. His father is a recurring, unwelcome, intrusive presence (he can read Ray's thoughts if he chooses and shows up at inconvenient times, like on the bus) who comes to scold and criticize and belittle, and Ray repeatedly rejects these attempts at mentorship. "You're not really my dad," he keeps saying. "You haven't earned it." As caught up as Ray is in the mess created by his father's lies, he refuses to let him set the tone for his life or identity.
But Ray isn't the only narrator of this series. Sometimes Dinah narrates, and we learn how she feels about this infatuated teenager who persists in writing to her. Not only does it provide insight into her character, it clarifies actions she will take and acts as a counterpart to Ray's limited perspective.
Another issue is narrated through an account written by Happy Terrill as a young man in 1941, recounting his acquaintance with a mysterious young man with an inexplicable earring (a time-traveling Ray!) and how he acquired his powers. Again, this allows us to better understand Happy, who has evidently always been a self-important jerk--a trait only exacerbated by his becoming the Ray. So much hubris.
Later on, third-person limited narration shows up for Joshua Terrill, who is too young to have thoughts introspective enough for first-person but whose perspective needs to be given for him to make sense. Joshua is just a child and in need of the guidance represented by a third-person narrator commenting on his actions--but the narrator doesn't comment. Only reports his thoughts. Like Ray, Joshua is alone in the world, no thanks to their father.
But the most surprising narrator is in a very late issue: a version of Bart Allen as an adult. This is jarring; Bart doesn't narrate normally. He thinks in pictograms. It's weird getting introspection from him, even twenty years into his future, and he comes across as a completely different character. But the narrative point here is less to develop Bart's character and more to reveal how badly future!Ray has gone downhill through the commentary of a close friend who has (mostly) maintained his moral compass where Ray hasn't. Future!Ray's thoughts and narration aren't a thing anymore because he's no longer self-reflecting. He has sold out to money and power and has left behind his essence in the process.
By the end of the series, the narration has more or less ended. Happy tells his final version of "the entire truth" (or is it?), another very subjective account designed to make himself look the hero despite his questionable actions. And Ray...he's finally reunited with a mother who now knows that he's her son. Things are about to change for him. He doesn't need to narrate his own life totally alone anymore.
(And he won't. Never again. The comics quit caring about his POV from here on out.)
#comicsposting again#RT: born with the light#I know this isn't going to mean much because no one else has read this#but *I* have and there are so many thoughts and I am going to make that everyone else's problem :P#so thanks for humoring me
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
"Good that" for each of the Gladers
(TDC)
For Newt, it slowly loses meaning as he loses all his memories. The only time he uses it is very close to the beginning, when Rat Man first tells him he's not immune. He's forcing a grin, forcing himself to seem like nothing is wrong. Then Thomas says "If you're cool with slowly going crazy and wanting to eat small children, then I guess we won't cry for you.", trying to joke about it to make it go away. Enter the Good That. It was just another way to try and make it seem like everything was normal and fine when it clearly wasn't.
But even as things get worse, Newt doesn't use it again. In the past books, he used it to called upon old memories of Alby, or didn't use it so that he could get over Alby's death. His use of it always revolved around Alby. But now he's forgotten him. He's forgetting everything they went through and everything that simple phrase meant to him. For Newt, it means nothing.
For Thomas, it gives him confidence. Whenever he uses it, he needs a boost of confidence, or to fake being confident: after being controlled by WICKED and made to attack Minho, trying to convince everyone to go visit Gally, leaving alone with Brenda to the Right Arm's headquarters, getting out of the van to see Newt, feeling like he's being lulled into a false sense of security when he's going to the headquarters with Lawrence, and when Minho essentially tells him to blindly follow Brenda's instructions. He's become the leader now, and he needs to seem more confident than ever. For Thomas, it's confidence.
For Minho, it's a bit more complicated. The three situations he uses it in during this book are:
1. When Thomas jokes about never having another Gathering on the Berg after the first one includes talking about WICKED controlling them, Newt insulting Brenda (which means they can't ignore the Flare), and just generally being pessimistic about the future.
2. When Thomas tells him Newt is probably fine when they're going to Crank Palace.
3. As a response to Thomas's own "Good that" near the end of the book, when they've reached the safe haven, and they're realizing they're going to have to spend the rest of their lives without Newt.
As you may have noticed, all three of these have Thomas in them. Whenever Minho says "good that", it's in response to something Thomas said. Because for Minho it's not something he says of his own accord, but it's something he started to say only around Newt and Alby, as a response to their own "good that"s. Now that connection has been transferred to Thomas, the only other person who still says it. For Minho, it's Thomas.
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Blackout Girl
Tmr boys x reader female
You wake from the box and someone jumps in, they scared you, you blackout, therefore dubbed the name of 'blackout girl'.
@petrichor-idyllic this is it :)
Word count: 1, 287
I don't know the first thing about writing these so don't judge
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You walked into a sterile looking room, with a boy inside; he was seated on a table, motioning for you to sit in the chair next to the table.
"Hi there, my name is Thomas, and my friend and I are in charge of preparing you for the maze trials" the way that Thomas had spoken sounded like the most rehearsed thing you'd ever heard. "I assume that you are (Y/n)? Unless they told me the wrong person."
Yes, you nodded, too afraid to speak. You were obviously uncomfortable to be in this situation, he noticed and cut to the chase. "In a few days, you will be sent off into the maze trials, to find a cure for the Flare virus. Your memory will be removed with the swipe, but rest assured it is a painless procedure." He left to get his friend.
After an hour of boredom later he returned with a girl. "This is (Y/n), (Y/n), meet Teresa" Thomas introduced the both of you. Thinking to yourself you reached the conclusion that Teresa was a nice person. "Teresa will be the one looking after you most of the time seeing as you are a-" he looked at you "a girl."
Your last days were a flash, each day was filled with either Thomas or Teresa telling you the amazing things you will do, the psychs monitoring your 'Killzone', and so much more.
"(Y/n), we must leave now, you are going in today, we need to implant the swipe."
You were ushered through a maze of corridors until they brought you to another sterile room. You were lay on a bed with a mask above it, you became sedated as the mask was placed over your face.
Your memories were in front of you, but like balloons, they floated away with no trace of their ever being there.
You awoke in a box, scraping sounds all around you, flashing lights hurt your eyes as you noticed the box was being hurled upward at an alarming rate.
Finally, all motion stopped until a crack of light appeared in the roof of the box, your box. The crack grew bigger, flooding your box with unimaginably bright light. You saw the faces of boys, at least fifty of them, looking down at you. "HELP!" you screamed, it hurt your dry throat "Somebody help me!". You were absolutely petrified.
One of the boys jumped into your box, a loud bang sounded as he landed. "It's okay greenie, calm down and breathe" he spoke calmly. "Greenie?" you yelled, frustrated, you stood up to see everyone better. "My name is not greenie! My name is, it is. Why can't I remember my bloody name?" Then, in shock, you blacked out and, on your way, down, your head smacked the corner of a box.
While you were out cold, the boys had to figure out how to get you from the box to the land above. They decided to get two boys to carry you out, one was the boy that was already in the box, and the other was the second in command. "The shanks a little heavy, don't you think Minho?" said one of them, obviously trying to joke around. "Well Newt, you aren't awfully strong, are you?" Only then, they realized the large gash bleeding uncontrollably on the back of your head.
"Clint, Jeff, get here right now" they yelled, urgency filled their voices. "Shuck, the greenie might die". Clint and Jeff arrived as you woke up. Minho and Newt were holding you by your arms and legs. "Well, this is awkward, I am Newt and the boy at your feet is Minho." Minho wasn't thinking straight at that time, and he waved at you. He let go of your legs, and dropped you on your rear, "Oops, sorry greenie."
The two boys, Clint and Jeff began to fuss over your head, as though you were a two-year-old. "I'm Clint, he is Jeff. We are known as Med-Jacks, and we are here if people get injured."
Clint began to bandage your head but accidentally bumped into your wound. "OW!" and then, you blacked out.
You awoke to Newt in front of you, "Hi greenie, we gotta stop meeting like this, after you blacking out and all, hey blackout girl?" he chuckled at his remark.
You gently touched your head, "Wha-, what happened?" you asked. "You fell, hit your head on a supplies box as you fell, it was quite the show." he said in response, "That brings me to tell you that you can't be on your own for now, can't have you blacking out on your own can we?" New said, his grin obvious in his voice.
"Hey Greenbean, I'm Gally. Up you hop, we have a surprise" Gally said, interrupting Newt. "Aha, so it is done" Newt asked. Gally ignored Newt and focused on helping you up from the bed.
The three of you walked from the homestead to see a giant pile of wood lit on fire. Boys wooed and yeahed at their accomplishment.
You hobbled around and decided to talk to Minho. "Hey greenie, sorry bout' earlier. I didn't mean to scare ya when I jumped in the box, and for yanno, dropping you on your rear" Minho chuckled, taking a swig of something in a jar. You motioned that you wanted to try it, but he held it back "You sure, it is very strong" you reached over him and grabbed the jar "I think I can handle myself, I just want to try it" then you took a swig.
Clint jogged over, saying something about when you are injured you shouldn't have alcohol.
You walked to a table and had a ton of jars emptied in minutes, "Mmmm" this is good. Newt was also there. "Hey Newt, this is so bloody good" as you pointed at the jar. He was a little shocked, and he counted your empty jars. "You should tell Gally then, it is his special drink."
You finally got to Gally after falling over a few times, and Newt helping you up a few times too. "Hey Gally" you pointed at your jar "You were, I mean, you made it taste good."
Gally looked to Newt, "Is she drunk?" Newt nodded "How many jars?" "At least thirteen, that is what I counted." Newt confessed for you.
"What the shuck do you mean thirteen! I can barely have more than that myself!" Gally yelled, shocked and worried. He was concerned. "Exactly what I thought, shall we call our lovely Med-Jacks over?"
"I think we should Newt, look at your feet" Gally said, laughing.
You were lying on the ground, as wet as it may be. Breathing heavily, you said "Newt, come here." Newt ducked down to the grass to see what happened. "What's up greenie?"
"Newt, I remember my name, It's, my name is-" and then you fainted for the umpteenth time that day.
You awoke feeling very groggy, must've been the hangover. "Newt, Newt? Where are you" You yelled, panicked, scared and worried. "Greenie, it's okay, I am here" Newt cooed. "Now, last night you said you remembered your name. Can you tell me please?"
You hesitated "My name, right, my name is (Y/n)"
"(Y/n) hey? It really suits you. Do you want to be called (Y/n) or something else?" Newt asked, looking for confirmation. "(Y/n) will do just fine" you say in response.
Gally approached the two of you. "So your name is (Y/n)?" you nod in reply. "Well (Y/n), I am glad to see you like my drink, but next time stick to only having a few"
"Fine"
30 notes
·
View notes
Text
alt: The Waking — see here for trigger warnings
Chapter 4 of 9 | [prev / next]
It hit the ground shoulder first, just as Orville had, when the resistance against it let up, and let out a string of indistinguishable curses as it hit the floor.
Something. Someone. A person.
Orville’s throat closed, blood-caked nose whistling gently with heavy, frightened pants. He appeared a feral dog, fearful of the bangs of fireworks screaming overhead.
The intruder to his seclusions groaned softly, rolling to a sitting position and rubbed at a face hidden from view by a curtain of dark hair. Dark hair that Orville knew. His breath caught in his lungs, and left his throat through a slow, pained wheeze.
Jones.
Orville’s fingers curled, clawing at the sheets above him as he tried to pull himself up to a more defensive position. He didn’t dare move any further, not when the façade of his friend suddenly sat ramrod straight and their attention stole towards him.
Recognition blossomed on that familiar face – face, he had a face! – and Orville felt the gurgle of bile rise, drowning out the buzzing flicker of hope sparked in his chest.
“Shepherd?” Jones spoke to him. His words Came out little more than a whisper, fragments of disbelief and uncertainty coming together like a complete puzzle. He stumbled to his feet, reaching for Orville –
And Orville flinched backwards, knees buckling where he’d been trying to drag himself upright. He crashed back to the ground, a low whine forcing itself from his throat.
“Orville, Holy shit, I’ve been – I thought… Fuck, man, we thought you were dead!” Thomas sounded like he was being choked. Something about the way those eyes shimmered with unshed grief tugged at Orville’s rabbiting heart, drew him to the state of required comfort that the kids blamed on his maternal instincts. Orville looked to the vixen, partially hidden by the other man’s silhouette. Cornered
He shivered under Thomas’s gaze, wincing as those brown eyes scraped over every inch of ruined, bared skin. Jones’s usually soft features twisted into dismay, then anger, mouth tilted into a horrified frown. He had a face. Orville wanted to cry.
“What the fuck happened to you? Who did this? I’ll fucking kill –“ he breathed deeply, steeling himself. And then he softened his voice, words coming out rough just the same: “I need to get you to a hospital man, here…”
He reached for Orville again, slowly, gently, and Orville wanted to accept those hands. But he didn’t – he couldn’t –
He squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his face away from them. Orville’s nostrils flared, and he was distantly aware that he was on the verge of a fucking breakdown, distantly aware of Thomas’s voice trying to draw him back from the precipice, but all Orville wanted to do was jump and fly –
Shaking hands caught him by the jaw, and Orville freaked. Bursts of memories – those ghosting hands, trailing all over him, torturing him, hurting him, breaking him, him, him, Him, Him, Him, Him, Him-
He surfaced, gasping for air. Grounding weight on either shoulder forced his flailing body to repent. Repent. Dirty. Dirty boy –
“Orville! Orville, it’s okay- it’s… fuck, it’s okay. Just breathe with me man! Jesus fuck, just breathe – “
Orville opened his eyes to find Thomas Jones staring right back, face creased with fear. The other man had removed his hands from Orville’s shoulders, clenching his fingers in, out, in, out (The door). A rattling breath shook his lungs. Then another.
“Thomas,” Orville rasped. Thomas was sat back on his heels, looking lost and terrified down at him.
“It’s me, Shepherd.”
“You’re not real,” Orville whispered, staring past his shoulder. The light cast a thin halo over Thomas’s hair, and the man sank back further as though burned. In a small voice, he spoke:
“What?”
Orville didn’t know how to respond, simply shaking his head, breathing becoming shallower second by second as those fingers reached for him again. Thomas let out a nervous, heart-breaking breath, copying the motion.
“I’m not real?” he repeated, quiet as a mouse. Orville swallowed back his words; eyes trained on the door. “Fuck, Orville, don’t play games with me, dude, I’m right here!”
“No.”
“Orville- “
“No,” Orville screamed, clasping his bound hands to his chest, tucking his knees beneath him – trying to get as far away as possible from the trickery. This doppleganger was good – better. An upgrade. He’d almost fallen for it, couldn’t risk making the same mistake twice. Orville squeezed his eyes shut, as though being blind to the situation could make it disappear.
“You’re shaking. Just – “Thomas’s voice was gentle. Orville shook his head frantically, drawing back even further into himself. Jones let out a strange, keening sound. “Fuck, okay. What do you… what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to leave.” The words were cold and miserable. Orville felt the man shiver before him, closer than he’d realised, and struggled some more in an effort to escape the vicinity of the horrible, vile evil. How dare they try and copy Thomas. How dare they, how cruel, how cruel. “Go back to the Others.”
“Others? You’ve seen the others?” Orville peeled one eye open, forcing himself to look. He nodded almost imperceptibly. He heard Thomas move, the denim of his jeans coming together in a rush of scraping fabric. “Orville, the others…”
“My friends without faces,” Orville murmured. The gentleness of his own voice surprised him, and he felt his face heat. Thomas’s gaze softened as their eyes met.
“I didn’t see them.” His voice wavered. Orville felt as though he were being lulled into false confidence by the dulcet tone. Of course it would be Thomas, he thought grimly. “I have a face, Orville.”
“Yes.”
“Look at me. I have a face. I’m right here.”
“You’re not real.”
Hurt flashed through Thomas’s eyes, and he reached out again – tentatively, this time. Orville let him, heart thudding against his rib cage like a trapped bird. Perhaps Jones would tear it out, and the creature could fly.
Orville imagined the scene: Saw what the blood would look like pooled on the floor, staining the curtains, sprayed on the walls. They were no longer off-white, instead they were splashed and dipped in crimson and gold. They were exactly what He wanted, Orville knew. Because He loved to decorate, loved to play with his new toys and –
A warm hand closed around his forearm (Like Other-Nathan, but gentle, soft, tender, real) and ushered the air back to his lungs as he remembered for a second time how to breathe.
“Woah, hey,” Thomas soothed, and Orville’s heart began to beat a-new. The grip on his arm loosened, nails dragging gently against his skin. “You’re okay, man, I’m right here.”
“You’re real,” Orville’s lower lip trembled of it’s own accord, jaw working as an unsettling pain prickled behind his eyes. “Yuh-yuh-y-y-you…”
Thomas shushed him, then. A pale, long finger Came up to drag beneath his eyelid, wiping away a lone, budding tear. His touch was merciful, familiar, and Orville choked back a sob at the sensation, leaning into the contact.
“I’m real,” Came the reply, and there were lots of things wrong with Orville, but his hearing was fine, and Jones sounded like he was on the verge of something. But it was another sort of power, fuelled by some other emotion. “I’m real, and I’m never letting you out of my fucking sight again.”
Orville felt a wet heat trail down his cheek as he watched the man – Thomas. The man’s face was red, splotchy – a bruise crested the corner of his brow bone, sickly yellow and mottled green. His sad eyes glistened with latent disbelief and understanding. Thomas’s hand lifted to cup his face, slow and enticing as though Orville were a wild animal. Maybe he was. But he sank into the touch anyway, his own fingertips reaching to trace rough knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Thomas’s hand trembled against his face, rings cold and harsh against his skin.
“You don’t get to be sorry. That’s my job,” the other man laughed wetly, and all the heart ache in the world was laced within his words. Pain twisted through each syllable. Orville pried the fingers from his jaw tenderly, watching as they curled into Thomas’s opened palm; grasping for some illusion they’d once had, now lost.
“Thomas – “
“I should’ve been there, Orville.” The interruption was angry, frustrated. Orville flinched backward from the outburst, but Thomas continued to stare down at his hands, focused on the where Orville’s blood had gingerly stained his fingertips. “The others – they looked, for a while. And I thought… I thought you were just doing your stupid, rich-boy thing. And then the police got involved and – fuck, everyone gave up. Even me, but- but, Orville, it’s been three months.”
Orville didn’t say anything – he didn’t have anything to say. There was a foul taste in his mouth, though whether it was left behind from the rag that had been pressed there or from the thought of his friends (his friends, his kids) abandoning all hope, he couldn’t quite discern. Instead of lingering on it, as he might have had he not been in the company of a real person, Orville drew his knees to his chest, resting his bound hands there as Thomas leaned in to untie the thick rope.
Thomas let out a shuddering sigh, as though steeling himself as an uncomfortable silence crept over them: He broke the quiet before it had a chance to really settle.
“What’s with the vermin?” the man whispered, breath ghosting the shell of Orville’s ear. He shuddered. Thomas was staring at the fox, looking past his shoulder at the taxidermy amateur-piece.
“She was there when I woke up.”
Thomas grinned (Orville didn’t know how to take the fact that it didn’t quite reach his eyes), an eyebrow raised. He leaned back on his heels, dropping the bloodied, frayed rope into a pile at his feet. “She? Oh, you naughty boy, Orv. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to check up a ladies’ skirt?”
“No one said anything about roadkill,” Orville retorted, swallowing back the hot acid burning at the back of his throat (naughty boy. Dirty.). He tried a waxy smile, waning as Thomas caught his eye.
“Shepherd,” he coaxed gently, and Orville wanted to hurt anyone who had ever judged the Jones boy – really judged him – before they even knew him (he neglected to think of how he was part of that group himself. Orville had been hurting for a long time now, anyway). Wide, brown eyes bore into his soul, like they could see into it, and the sensation exacerbated the unsettling hurricane in his gut. Orville blanched, leaning his head against the end of the bed with his lips pressed into a thin, pasty line. “Hey, hey – Orville, you’re okay, yeah?” Thomas brushed a strand of knotted hair from his forehead, smudging the glob of congealed blood that had kept it plastered to his skin. Dirty brown, it swept in a grand arch above his eyebrow, and Thomas rubbed his thumb at it tenderly.
Orville managed to clear the lump gathering in his throat, speaking in the odd, croaking voice of someone unable to cough away the scratching in their throat: “Y-you said three months. I went… I’ve been – for three months? Are you sure?”
Thomas’s face hardened slightly; face twisted something sour. “Nathan’s been counting the days on his stupid Star Wars calendar. 87 days, Shepherd. Maybe it’s not exact but I’d say it’s at least close.”
Orville winced at the frustration leaking into his tone. “Yeah but… that’s just. That’s a long time, man.”
“How long did you think it’d been?”
“I don’t know, a couple hours, maybe? A day at most. It didn’t really click that I’d, y’know - That I’d be missing.” Orville turned his face away, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. He stared down at the chalky flakes of blood that crumbled there. Thomas’s hands were back on him in an instant; movement too quick, too eager, and he tensed. Only slightly. But slightly was all it took for the other man to slip away, and Orville missed him intensely.
Thomas sat back, knees sliding to the ground. That total, overwhelming look of hapless dismay was evident in every corner of his face – shadowing his brow, reflected in his lashes, in the tilt of his mouth. “A day? What – when did you wake up?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Not too long ago?”
“And- and before that, what happened? Do you know?”
“I don’t know.”
“But… Orville, you can’t have been sleeping for three months. Something had to have happened, something – “
“Christ, Thomas!” Orville snapped, bringing a hand to his temple. He pressed his eyes shut painfully. “Stop fucking interrogating me! I don’t remember, okay? I don’t fucking – “He let out a shaky breath. “I just, there was this guy, right? And I don’t remember what he did to me. I don’t remember, I just – I just woke up, Thomas, I woke up with my fucking hands tied and a gag shoved down my throat, and I was ruined.”
Thomas let out a pained sound of suffering. “Orville…” He swallowed. “What exactly did that sick fuck do to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Orville -”
“I said nothing, Thomas! Because I don’t know. Take a look and see for yourself. You probably know more than I do, anyway.”
“Has this ‘guy’ been drugging you?”
Orville let out a muffled sob between his fingers, palms pressed against his face: “Thomas, I don’t –“
( - wiping the slate clean, keeping him fresh and ready for the next round. beatings could be forgotten, their remnants not so much. He couldn’t inflict too much damage the third time, or the fourth, because He was waiting for Orville to heal, so that He could wipe away those memories again and start all over again - )
“-kay, that’s okay, Orv, it’s okay. You don’t have to know, not right now and- and not ever,” Thomas said, worry bleeding into his insistence. It made him sound deranged, desperate. Join the club, Orville thought bitterly, and he blinked lazily up at the other man as Thomas scrambled to his feet. Hands leered down at him, commandeering, domineering, and managed to get a hold beneath his arms. “Can you stand?”
“I’m not fucking crippled, Jones.” Orville winced at how poisonous the words sounded: He tried to brush Thomas off, anyway.
It was typical, really. Even now, saviour arrived and knight’s shining armour blinding his eyes, he was trying to push them away, to make them leave. He didn’t want to stay. Orville didn’t want to be trapped in his comfortable prison, but the pressure at the base of his skull was warning him not to leave. Orville didn’t know if he could. Thomas had found him, but would he ever be able to find himself? There were fragments of Orville Shepherd shattered and spread about him like the pieces of an impossible puzzle. Orville was afraid that if he left, he’d never be able to complete it. And he’d leave those pieces of himself behind.
He sighed, drowsy irritation flooding the space between his eyes. Thomas wet his lips uncomfortably, letting go of him as Orville struggled to drag himself from the floor. “Okay, dude.”
Okay, because that’s all Thomas knew how to say.
tag list: @anonymousfoz @digital-chance @milatooo
(ask to be added)
#wip : the waking#writeblr#writing community#creative writing#excerpt#snippet#the waking#writers of tumblr#wip#horror#horror book#cosmic horror#lovecraftian horror#lovecraftian#writers#writer community#writer#lgbtq books#gay books#gay mlm#hurt/comfort#whump writing#angst#descriptive writing#implied sa
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Swap AU make my pea-sized brain ping around my head like one of those brick breaker games.
Mathis was on a flight to Great Bear to visit his son in prison. He booked a flight with Archer Remote Transport, flying with a serious woman named Molly who doesn’t seem to particularly like him. Their plane goes down, and he finds himself in a quiet apocalypse.
Molly is a pilot who hunts in her spare time. After her husband died in mysterious circumstances, she’s generally regarded with suspicion by the people around her, and it weighs heavily on her.
Astrid is a doctor in the small town of Thompson’s Crossing. Shes taken over the community centre as a clinic. She would go out and search for crash survivors, but the people here need all her attention.
Mackenzie is a convict who recently got transferred to Blackrock. After one of his guys, a stern man named Jeremiah, got sent here, he got himself sent up to break him out. By the time he reached the prison, that had already happened, so he started searching the island for someone who could get them off it.
Heller takes Jeremiah’s position almost exactly.
Jace takes Methuselah’s position, but isn’t quite as cryptic about it and instead speaks in scientific terms that leave Mathis like “please have mercy I got a C in high school physics”.
Lilith Barker takes Jace’s place, ensuring that Donner doesn’t escape. She was climbing Blackrock mountain when the first flare happened, and when she saw from above what was happening, she rushed down to try to help.
Vachon takes Hobbs’s place but isn’t as obviously dead meat after his cutscene though. Hobbs is the guy who they mentioned got shot with arrows (who is Leclerc in canon).
Mackenzie, in spite of being a convict, isn’t actually a bad guy. He’s exceedingly practical, but he cares for his people, and when he learns Mathis is trying to get to Blackrock, he immediately agrees to help him. Then a faction conflict happens in Blackrock because some dudes are like “hey fuck you and fuck this guy from solitary you’re not the boss of me”. So Mackenzie wrestles with that and keeps them in line while Mathis goes to do all the quests.
The warden and Father Thomas sort of swap places except the warden ends up more in Molly’s position. He went off the deep end a bit with the fire and brimstone and most people stopped attending his services, which he resents them for. He kills the convicts because “it’s the will of the Lord”. Just fully cuckoo bananas with the religion.
Grey Mother is Mackenzie’s other henchman because I think epic gun grandma should get to commit crime and also hang out with Mackenzie more. It’s part of why in this AU, Donner does actually escape; because Lily gets distracted by her mom being there.
Methuselah goes where Grey Mother does. He has the player go look for buffer memories instead so they can write down the story of Milton because he doesn’t want it to die. They need to go to the farmhouse to get the key to the office, not the lockbox.
Father Thomas isn’t locked up (because in this AU, the convicts didn’t murder everyone bc the staff weren’t as horrible to them) but he is completely useless in sorting out the conflict in the prison. Just like “oh no, please don’t— oh no you’re doing it anyways :(“
#the long dark#tld#will mackenzie#astrid greenwood#tld Molly#tld mathis#tld jace#tld heller#tld vachon#tld father thomas#tld Franklin#tld lily barker#tld methuselah#tld hobbs#tld Jeremiah#tld grey mother#there are so many ways to swap ppl here that could be interesting#Molly in Mackenzie’s role is particularly neat to me because they’re kinda similar but also SO different and I love it
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
TOMMY's Deep thoughts
OKay this one is about Teresa. But to start it off Imma compare her to Gally.
Gally was hated in the first movie but got his redemption in the last.
Teresa was not really hated in the first book but second book she betrayed the gladers which people hated her for. . But then in the last movie she got her redemption. But people still dilsliked her. Hated her even. I mean I can see why. But I think its because her redemtpion his not as easily noticed or isn't staight foward as Gally's was, because Gally apoligized to thomas later, and helped him. Teresa's isn't so easy. Her redemption is there. But it wasn;t like gallys.
In my own opinion. I think Teresa was one of the most strongest characters in the series. She sacrificed her frienship to save her friends and humanity. she had to do that to save them actually. WICKED was threatening to kill Thomas if Teresa didn't do what they said. She realized that saving him was worth losing what they had.
Movie Teresa, she was put in the maze, just like all the gladers, and later in the scorch it showed her how bad everything is, she doesn't agree with WICKED's ways, but she agrees that they need to find a cure. If you think about it, she didn't want the test to fail, causing the maze trials to begin again, sending in another bunch of kids.she didn't want anyone to go through what she, and all the gladers did.
She was atleast 17 years old at the time. And Im pretty sure even though she did not help wicked and stood with the gladers, Newt would have died anyways, becuase he did not get the cure. Teresa came so close into saving him then anyone else could ever be. She actuallu found the cure to the flare, or figured it out. Im not saying that Teresa is a saint or anything, Im just saying that she's....she's technalcly a character in a book just like Severus Snape was in Harry Potter.
Heck, if we were in the maze and were Teresa and later given all our memories back, showing what happened to our mother. and on top of that, WCKD telling us that this is the only way of fixing things. Of what you seen, the scorch, the cranks, people dying, the world dying... and you're going to put you're friends infront of that? If the world dies, you won't even have any friends, you would be not even alive.
Teresa is one of those characters that are hard to understand. She's like Snape from Harry Potter.
Teresa wanted to save Newt. She saw that newt had the flare, and she went to make a potential cure, remembering that thomas's blood saved Brenda. and in the end, she was too late.
I think her whole goal was to keep the gladers safe and Newt dying scared her.
I think Teresa herself believed she was the reason newt died.
But i don't know how to explain it, of how i see it. but this is all.
#maze runner#tmr#mazerunner#themazerunner#the maze runner#tmr teresa#tmrteresa#thomas tmr#mazerunnerteresa#teresa tmr#maze runner teresa#teresa maze runner#teresa agnes#justice for teresa#themazeruner#the mazerunner#mazerunner fandom#tmr fandom#TOMMY's Deep thoughts
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Horror Of ‘Firestorm’ Introduced By Europe’s Deadliest Bombing Raid 80 Years Ago
Operation Gomorrah, a combined British and U.S. raid on the port city of Hamburg left unimaginable destruction and a problematic legacy.
Thomas NewdickPUBLISHED Jul 27, 2023 5:37 PM EDT
Lancaster bomber over the German city of Hamburg
Photo by SSPL/Getty Images
Britain’s King Charles recently visited the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight at RAF Coningsby, Lincolnshire, in eastern England, to pay tribute to the veterans of Bomber Command, who took the air offensive to the heart of Nazi Germany during World War II. The focal point of his visit was the 80th anniversary of the legendary Dambusters raid in May 1943. This daring — and very costly — raid, which has near-iconic status in the United Kingdom, is very much how the country likes to remember Bomber Command’s contribution to victory over Hitler’s Germany. The Dambusters’ targets were dams in the industrialized Ruhr region, their aim to diminish Germany’s ability to produce armaments.
Less well-remembered is another raid, or series of raids, which took place two months later, in July 1943, 80 years ago this week. This was Operation Gomorrah, and it brought destruction on a terrifying scale to the port city of Hamburg in northern Germany.
A well-known photo showing an RAF Bomber Command Avro Lancaster during an earlier attack on Hamburg, on the night of January 30/31, 1943. The bomber is silhouetted against flares, smoke, and explosions. This raid was the first time that H2S radar had been used by the Pathfinder aircraft to navigate the force to the target. Crown Copyright
While the bombing of Hamburg in July 1943 actually involved six separate raids, including direct cooperation by RAF Bomber Command and the U.S. Army Air Forces’ Eighth Air Force, the raid on the night of July 27-28 was the most devastating. It killed around 20,000 in a single night. By comparison, the most lethal night of the German Luftwaffe’s Blitz offensive against London in 1940-41 killed around 1,400 people. No other single Allied air attack in the European Theater of Operations during World War II would come close.
Operation Gomorrah — its name grimly appropriate, for the biblical city destroyed by God with fire and sulfur — represented a change in tactics for Bomber Command and it would also usher in new technical developments, including the use of radar-spoofing chaff countermeasures. Meanwhile, the combination of high-explosive and incendiary bombs, placed accurately over a given residential area, would introduce the world to the terror of the firestorm.
Initially, the RAF had sent its bombers against mainly industrial targets in Germany, hoping to have an impact on the production of weapons as well as hinder other war-critical functions. But at this stage, the ability of aircraft to put their bombs onto such targets with the required accuracy meant much of this was a wasted effort, taking a very heavy toll on aircrews.
The thinking of the British war-planners began to change. Where once an individual munitions factory might have been targeted, for example, the next logical step was to attack also the entire area surrounding such a factory. Finally, the target was extended to the workers that this factory relied upon. This meant launching raids against the sprawling residential areas of the cities where these civilians lived.
Two RAF Bomber Command aircrew, Sergeant J. Dickinson from Canada and Sergeant F. Gilkes from Trinidad, waiting to board their aircraft for a raid on Hamburg in 1943. Photo by Press Agency photographer/Imperial War Museums via Getty Images
A joint decision by the British War Cabinet and the Air Staff in 1942 called for the targeting of “the morale of the enemy civil population — in particular the industrial workers.” The RAF would achieve this by launching massed raids against German cities with populations over 100,000. The aim of the ‘area bombing’ campaign was to kill and make homeless workers, disrupting industrial output while also sapping civilian morale — although this last one is something the Luftwaffe had singularly failed to do when targeting British civilians in 1940-41.
By 1943, Bomber Command had assembled a powerful fleet dominated by modern heavy four-engine bombers — Avro Lancaster, Handley Page Halifax, and Short Stirling — and was ready to put the new strategy into practice.
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
@its-tea-time-darling i am trying to answer your ask but tumblr is being dumb about it so i copy-pasted it here instead and am hoping it works
yes hello i am on my computer now and so i feel like i can actually write this out better bc it is. an essay (and no doubt going to get longer when i start writing it v me just thinking about it)
i'm sure others may have said similar before, but until very recently i've been avoiding most teresa content lol
In this fandom (less so in more recent years than in the past), Teresa is the betrayer and the dead girl. First, she gains Thomas's trust. Then she makes out like she wants him dead--very convincingly. Then she reveal that that was because WICKED made her. And, finally, she dies for Thomas.
That leaves Thomas (and us) with a very complicated set of feelings and thoughts surrounding Teresa. Let's try and unpack some of mine.
(if you haven't read fever code and the kill order, you might want to skip or skim this part)
In Kill Order, we first meet baby!teresa--a traumatized little girl, hardly out of toddlerhood, who is found by Mark, Alec, Trina, and Lena in a deserted village. She's got marks showing she was injected with the virus (which is not from the solar flares as WICKED posits, but instead a human bioweapon), but she's fine, marking her as immune. She was witness to the attacks on her settlement and everyone turning into Cranks and subsequently dying.
Due to her immunity, Mark turns her over the the Post-Flare Coalition, aka WICKED, at the end of the book, saving her life. She has witnessed more death and had others infected with the virus assume that she's a demon because she's immune.
In the second epilogue (and the prologue, where Thomas is swiped and sent into the maze) we see an older Teresa, who is sympathetic to the infected and believes they deserve a chance to be saved because of what Mark, Alec, Trina, and Lena did for her.
Throughout Fever Code, we see Teresa through Thomas's eyes. We know from the two years later epilogue of Kill Order that he's five at the time he's brought into WICKED, making Teresa seven and two years older than him; he wouldn't remember the immediate-post infection world the way she does (this particular detail is also something I stew over quite a bit, but that's for another post). They have plenty of differences, and argue over methods even when they're young, but it's not nearly as high-stakes as it is later, and after a while, they're pretty much each other's only friends.
At the end of Fever Code, before Thomas is sent into the maze, Teresa admits that she still believes in the possibility of a cure. This is a few years after they have to kill the original Creators. (As this is not her POV, I can guess that she might not know--or might be denying the fact--that it's WICKED who released the Flare in the first place. Thomas doesn't know at all, having been taught along with everyone else that the disease was named after the solar event it was named for--the Solar Flares.) In the epilogue--a memo from Paige to the Council--Teresa and Aris are named as the final candidates. Given the use of the same term in Death Cure (by Janson, to refer to Thomas), plans changed. It also thanks them for their loyalty. Teresa's memo is the more interesting one, here. It confirms that Teresa and Aris kept their memories, and were going to coordinate with WICKED throughout the trials. She truly believes in what WICKED is doing, and that hasn't wavered in her ten years, likely closer to eleven, there. As we know, she write the infamous 'WICKED is good' on her arm, in order to 'plant the seed' in the Gladers' minds.
(if you were skipping, you can stop now!)
In Maze Runner, she tells Thomas she triggered the end, and pretends to know as little as they do--she leads the decoding of the maps, even, when it's entirely possible she already knew the code. She programmed the maze's day and night cycle and the griever hole, after all. We don't know what she sent to WICKED, or when. (Not that there's a lot they didn't already know, with the beetle blades.) She's a key factor in their escape, despite pretty much everyone other than Thomas doubting her and her intentions at first.
In Scorch Trials, she must know about the switch before it happens. Thomas can communicate with Aris telepathically, so she and Aris are probably coordinating not only the switch (Group B can't have left for the Scorch before Group A for this to work, despite canonically getting out of their maze earlier.) but also meeting up with the Gladers to kidnap Thomas.
She's also the screaming girl in the first half of the book, during their first day in the Scorch. She waits until they're taking a break to stop screaming and leave the building--Thomas hasn't gotten anything from or to her mentally, so Aris must have told her. When Thomas gets close to her, he notes three specific details: She's clean, not dusty and dirty from a day in the desert, she's crying, and her behavior reminds him of Gally right before he killed Chuck. She warns him to get away from her.
Obviously when he is kidnapped by Group B, her behavior has switched. She's now angry with Thomas outwardly, for reasons she's not explaining to him, while whispering to him entirely different things. She lets it slip that they were told to kill him by WICKED. Harriet tells Thomas that Teresa has 'hated' him the entire time, that she's acting like killing him is her idea.
Trying to convince WICKED, maybe? That she'll do whatever they tell her to, even when it hurts her?
After the chamber, she's changed again, and Thomas no longer knows what to feel about her (and neither did I, as the reader, for my first through read-throughs.) It's confirmed at this point that she's been talking to Aris the whole time, including in the maze. Thomas already knew this was a set-up, but this is the first time we see how much of a set-up it is. Free will is almost non-existent for these kids.
Of course, when they meet up again, Minho and the Gladers consider Teresa and Aris traitors and don't trust them.
Given how much we--and Thomas--now know that they have manipulated behind the scenes (as ordered by WICKED) that is completely fair and expected, especially when they don't know the whole story as Thomas does--but even Thomas giving them details later doesn’t matter.
We all know how Death Cure goes--her biggest role in this book is dying for Thomas. She is in Denver, for a time, but Thomas is more with Minho, Newt, Gally, or Brenda, so we don't see a lot of her.
With her chip removed, it's now impossible for WICKED to control her--assuming that WICKED removed the chips as they said they would, and assuming that Teresa doesn't still have hers. She's shown to believe in WICKED's mission until the end of the her life.
Now, with that summary that was longer than I expected it to be out of the way, let's talk more directly about Teresa's relationship with WICKED.
All Teresa knows outside of WICKED is terror and fear. She likely starved for a time, she was attacked and hurt, and undoubtedly would have died on her own or been killed by Cranks. Growing up within WICKED facilities literally saved her life, and she knows that from a young age. Unlike Thomas, she's not angry or upset about being given a new name. She's happy to accept it, because she wants to forget everything that happened outside of WICKED's walls. She wants to forget, and she wants to prove that providing for her was worth it.
So she does what they tell her: Kills the Creators, lies to Thomas about his entrance to the Maze (he thinks they're both going in memories intact) and communicates with Aris and WICKED throughout TMR and TST to coordinate meetings. She acts in a such a way that Thomas goes from liking her to hating her to being so conflicted about her that he feels nothing when she kisses him again. Meanwhile, Teresa is doing this to save him, or so WICKED says. They know she likes him, watched them grow up together, and they'll use it against her, against them both. She, like Thomas, is nothing but a pawn in WICKED's game. Every time she thinks she's gaining ground, they reveal another card to put her back in her place. Her firm belief in wanting a cure for the Flare combined with a childhood of being taught only what WICKED wanted her to know, seeking their approval at many turns, leaves her very open to manipulation. This results in Teresa being someone Thomas and the others aren't sure they can trust, because of her past, and Teresa herself just being a teenage girl trying to ensure that the boy she loves, the boy she grew up with, grew up loving, survives at all costs to her.
She's the betrayer, sure. But would she do betray Thomas if she thought she had no other choice?
I don't think she would.
Teresa, even as a secondary protagonist, is far more complex than just being 'the betrayer' and 'the dead girl'. She's a terrified little girl who doesn't want anyone to go through the suffering she saw as a child, and has been given an option to try and end that suffering by working toward a cure. She's a well-fed, well-protected child who knows of the horrors of the world outside but never goes back out to it; the same child is taught whatever WICKED wants her to know. She's a teenage girl who has killed, who may be falling in love with boy-next-door (literally), who still desperately wants to fix the world. Her avenue for saving Thomas and fixing the world isn't a branching path: They're both lined with flashing WICKED signs. If she listens to them, Thomas will be safe. If she works with them, they can find a cure. She can have both.
So she writes 'WICKED is good'. She's spreading the seed, trying to convince the Gladers.
Maybe that message wasn't for them, though. Not entirely.
No.
Maybe she was really trying to convince herself.
#teresa#tea#ask box stuff#tmr analysis#teresa character study#teresa analysis#tmr#tst#tdc#kill order#tko#fever code#tfc#mine#long post
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
@rosesandgunfire
He hates galas. Growing older meant having more room to push back against the obligation to attend, but there are certain ones he has to see through for more than the sake of publicity or his own image. The Martha Wayne Foundation holds a yearly fundraiser to keep its various projects, scholarships, and services running free of charge to the citizens of Gotham. Despite how he hates public appearances, he has to do it for her, for her memory.
A flute of champagne is downed for a sense of courage before Bruce makes his way to the front of the decorated ballroom. The tables are swept with cream colored cloth, candlelight, white roses. Every plate in the house costs twenty thousand dollars. Too many eyes are watching him move.
Anxiety flares up somewhere behind his lungs, tightening his chest, as the spotlight dawns on him. His hands grasp the edges of the podium as he reaches it, a strange numbness in his fingers. The shaky breath that leaves him is picked up by the microphone.
“I’d like to thank you all for attending tonight,” he says, diving right in. But one sentence is as far as he gets into the first paragraph, a bitter feeling settling in his stomach at reading someone else’s words. The printed out speech is folded in half, and he tosses it to the side, onto the floor out of sight of the crowd assembled. Bruce leans more heavily into the podium. Instinct is driving every move here on out.
“I had a speech written for me. One with all the right words to say. All the talking points. But what I rather talk about is my mother, the woman who started this foundation. Martha Wayne.” His eyes wander out over the donors, but with the light in his eyes, he can’t make out anyone’s expression, only that they’re deathly still and silent. “She was the type of woman who led with her heart and her compassion for other people. She wanted the average citizen of Gotham to have more opportunities, for there to be more access to family services, for artists to flourish and creativity a safe place to grow.” He pauses only briefly.
“That is what we try to do here at the foundation. I could bore you to death with statistics and our mission for the following year. But I think you all know what we do here, what we try to accomplish in her name.” Heat flashes over his eyes, and Bruce takes a slow, measured breath. “So, I’d like to thank you all who have generously gave to the foundation this year, past years, and the years to come. Mostly importantly, it helps Gotham. But secondly---and perhaps more importantly to me---it carries on her legacy and her heart.” With clearing of his throat, he starts to step back from the podium. “Thank you.”
Applause and stares follow him as Bruce shirks away from all the attention. His eyes are wet by the time he finds the men’s restroom. Locking himself into one of the stalls, he lowers the lid, sits, and presses the pads of his fingertips to his eyes, willing the grief to go away. After a few minutes, Bruce decides that splashing his face with water and getting out there and pretending to be the socialite he’s not is just his fate for the evening.
But as he exits the stall and makes his way to the sinks, his steps slow as he finds a familiar and very powerful face there, washing his hands. Bruce leans against the wall beside the last sink, remembering how his father Thomas had saved his life. “Mr. Falcone,” he greets simply with a nod.
#rosesandgunfire#r ;#⦕ a nocturnal animal ⦖ main verse#i was going to go in a very different direction for this but#i got the idea of bruce giving a very unscripted speech and had to run with it#so...anyway sorry for the massive wall of text. it was very feelings fueled.
13 notes
·
View notes
Note
There was a concentrated brightness to his eyes as he watches her work. How steel and flame manages to be such a content home away from home when it comes to the Lord of Electro. Things like this were meshed well into legends, how such a rare sight of the Narukami Ogosho actively bringing divine weaponry their first breath to either her own hand or to her retinue.
To Thoma, it looked like she was truly having a lot of fun. Whether it was solely in the realms of holding pride in this hobby, or to past thoughts remain a mystery.
"I can almost hear this weapon sing as its being formed. It feels pretty happy."
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The deity was usually seen in such elegant light down to her attire and makeup. Being back at the smithery on the other hand brought back that eager spark behind her violet eyes with the clash of the hammer against the heated metal and soot caked up on her cheeks.
Good nostalgia folded her mind with each blow causing her to look lost in thoughts but those memories were cut short by finishing off the blade with a quick prayer for divine guidance, and that her efforts will please the deity. Even if she's no longer the deity, may Makoto bless this newly forged naginata like many weapons before it.
Now she needs to prepare the ‘Core’ or shingane. A piece of tamahagane, about the size of a brick, is heated in the forge until softened. then hammered until it becomes slightly elongated. At this point, the archon folds it in half crosswise and the entire procedure is repeated approximately ten times. The process of heating, hammering, and folding drives out impurities present in the steel. After these steps are completed, the core is heated and hammered into the shape of a long, thin metal wedge. It's then set aside while the jacket steel, or kawagane, is prepared.
For the jacket steel, the archon carefully selects tamahagane which is harder in carbon content. Again, a piece about the size of a brick is repeatedly heated, hammered, and folded over upon itself. The jacket steel undergoes this process many times more than the core , resulting in steel which is composed of nearly 30,000 "folds", or layers. These layers produce the subtle and beautiful grain — jihada that will become visible on the surface of the blade once it's polished. In the final stages, the jacket steel is hammered out until it measures slightly longer than the piece of core steel made previously. It's then re-heated and wrapped around the core.
Ei carefully heats and hammers the two pieces together until they form a solid metallurgical bond. Extreme care must be taken during this process to ensure that no gaps are left between the jacket and core steels, and that no dirt or debris is trapped there. To do so would result in air bubbles or voids which would seriously weaken the blade and render it worthless in battle. After the two pieces of steel are joined, the smith continues to heat and hammer the blade until it measures close to the desired length.
She polished the polearm to make it fully shine after it was cooled. Unconsciously, Ei rubs more debris on her forehead but she can wash it off later — the finished product was a deep crimson-red polearm with gold and black accents matching its soon-to-be owner. The habaki was made of shiny gold-like brass; the habaki is a small metal "collar" which fits snugly over the blade at the point where the tang (nakago) meets the blade.
She wrapped a tassel around the staff’s socket as a decoration to give off more of that passionate pyro flames that flare up in battle. The blade was sharp and angular with the steal shifting sliver to orangey gold like pyro energy. She wanted this polearm to fully reflect the user element and flair!
“ You may name your newly forged weapon. May you give it a proper story whether it be battle or training. ”
#. ic#scarletooyoroi#cw: long post#// you fool! you’re letting me geek about smithery#// smiths usually pray with a shrine maiden to bless the steel by the gods but we leave yae and the maidens alone for this hehe
2 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
hezacodes
Heza Codes
fandomstars
Jess the Writer
wandering-alien
Frequently Inundated By Human Characteristics
z4mbeaut
Z4MBeauty
chrono96
Chrono96