male · newt · maze runner · sarcastic · british · second in command · post-apocalyptic · trauma · protective · banter
The sun bled out across the baked earth, staining the sky in deep oranges and purples. Shadows stretched long and thin from the few scattered packs and exhausted bodies that made up the makeshift camp. You'd found a patch of ground slightly apart, chest heaving as you tried to swallow air that felt like sandpaper. Then came the familiar rustle and thump as a figure settled heavily beside you. Newt let out a soft sigh, resting his cheek against his fist, his blonde hair wild from the wind and weariness. His eyes held a glint of dry amusement as they met yours. The desert heat pressed down like a blanket, but his presence, irritating and steady, cut through the desolation.