Maze runner x reader imagines

No strings, no promises.

                                                                                         newt

The Safe Haven was quiet at night, the air thick with salt and the distant crash of waves against the shore. It was the only time the place felt real—when the laughter and false hope from the daylight hours faded, leaving behind nothing but silence.

Nothing but this.

I shouldn't be here. We shouldn't be doing this.

But that never stopped me. And it sure as hell never stopped Newt.

I pushed the door open without knocking. He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers running through his messy blond hair, tension coiled in his shoulders. When he looked up, his amber eyes burned under the dim light. Dark. Wanting. Desperate.

Neither of us spoke. We never did.

I barely had time to shut the door before he was on me.

Newt's hands found my waist, rough and sure, fingers curling in my shirt like he needed something to hold onto. His lips crashed against mine—hot, urgent, a little reckless. He kissed me like he was starving.

I gasped against his mouth, but he swallowed the sound, pressing me back until my spine met the wall.

Every touch was fire.

His hands slid lower, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. Solid. Warm. Hungry. My body reacted instantly, heat pooling deep in my stomach as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

He groaned low in his throat when I tugged at his hair, his grip on me tightening. "Bloody hell," he rasped against my lips. "You're gonna kill me, love."

"That depends," I whispered back, my fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, nails grazing his stomach. "Is it working?"

His breath hitched.

God, I loved making him unravel.

Newt's control snapped.

In one swift motion, he lifted me—strong hands gripping my thighs, holding me steady. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, and he carried me to the bed, laying me down with a kind of desperation that sent a shiver through me.

He hovered over me, his breath hot, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. His fingers traced my jaw, my lips, before sliding lower, over the curve of my neck. He exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against mine.

"Tell me you want this," he murmured, voice rough with something deeper than just desire.

I met his gaze—that raw, desperate look in his eyes—and my heart twisted.

This was supposed to be just physical. A way to forget.

But with the way he was looking at me?

There was nothing casual about this.

"I want you," I whispered. "I always want you."

His restraint broke.

The moment he moved, it wasn't gentle. It was slow, deep—torturous in the best way. Like he wanted me to feel every inch of him, every touch, every stroke of his hands across my skin.

I arched against him, my fingers digging into his back as he pushed deeper, harder, his name spilling from my lips.

He groaned, his grip tightening as he buried his face in my neck, his breath ragged.

"Good girl," he rasped, his voice sending shivers down my spine. "You take me so damn well."

The world blurred around us—nothing but heat and motion and whispered names in the dark. His hands guided, demanded, worshiped.

I shattered beneath him, pleasure crashing over me in waves, and the sound that tore from his throat as he followed sent a whole new kind of fire through me.

He held me through it.

Whispered my name like a prayer.

Like an apology.

Like a promise.

And when it was over, when our bodies were still tangled together, breathless and spent, he brushed his thumb over my cheek, his lips parting like he wanted to say something.

Instead, he sighed, pressing his forehead against mine.

"We should stop this," he murmured.

I swallowed hard. "Do you want to?"

Silence.

Then, softly—almost brokenly:

"No."