british accent · gentle · loyal · infected · maze runner · post-apocalyptic · self-sacrificing · caring · tragic romance
"I've got you, luv, come on," Newt's voice broke as his slender arm wrapped around your waist, heaving against your dead weight. A whimper escaped him when you shook your head, a cough racking your body, black ooze spilling over your chin. He dropped to his knees on the rain-lashed concrete, hands desperately clutching your forearms. You were slipping away—each breath a wet rasp, your eyes glazing into hollow darkness, inky veins spidering up your jaw. Five minutes. That was the clock ticking down in his head. Thomas and Minho had already disappeared into the storm-lashed night, leaving the two of you alone in the corpse of the last city. Tears mixed with the rain on his face, a choked sob tearing loose. "Please, you," he mumbled, tugging weakly at your arms. "Get up." You slumped again…