#themaze runner

Pairing: Newt x Thomas x Female Glader (Reader) Summary: As the undisputed leader of the Glade, your authority is absolute. But when Newt and Thomas catch your scent in the Deadheads, their desperate hunger pulls you into a fierce, possessive encounter against the ancient trees. Submission becomes power, and exhaustion melts into tender possession – because even on her knees, a Queen commands her loyal subjects. Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Semi-Public Sex, Oral Sex (F & M Receiving), Double Penetration (Vaginal/Oral), Light Choking/Gagging, Dom/Sub Undertones (Female Domme), Power Dynamics, Aftercare, Strong Language, A/B/O Elements (Scent Focus/No Full Shifts). Genre: Smut, Romance, Dystopian, A/B/O Lite Word Count: ~2,100

Author's Note: This started as a prompt about scent & possessiveness in the Glade... and then Newt and Thomas decided to get very hands-on with their Queen. Expect intense dynamics, rough passion, and soft aftercare. Mind the tags! ✨

The late afternoon sun filtered through the thick canopy of the Deadheads, dappling the moss-covered ground in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth, decaying wood, and the sharp, clean tang of pine resin. You were perched on a sturdy root protruding from an ancient oak, your focus absolute. In your hands, a small, sharp knife moved with practiced precision, shaving delicate curls of wood from the trunk. You were carving a winding vine, its leaves just beginning to unfurl under your careful touch. A low, contented hum vibrated in your chest, a wordless melody that blended with the rustle of leaves and the distant calls of Glader chores – a tiny pocket of peace in the ever-present tension of the Maze.

Just a few more strokes on this leaf... gotta get the curve right. Feels good to make something that isn't a spear or a wall reinforcement. Wonder if Frypan needs more stirring spoons... Your thoughts were quiet, absorbed in the rhythm of the blade against the grain.

Suddenly, warmth enveloped you from behind. Strong arms slid around your waist, pulling you back against a solid chest. A chin rested on your shoulder, and warm breath, smelling faintly of sun-baked skin and something uniquely Thomas, ghosted across the sensitive skin of your neck, sending an immediate shiver down your spine, despite yourself.

Tommy. Always sneaking up. Feels good though... damn it, focus. You didn’t startle, just let out a soft laugh, the humming cutting off mid-note. You shook your head, the movement brushing your cheek against his. “Tommy,” you said, your voice calm but laced with affectionate exasperation. You patted the arm encircling your waist. “Let me do my job before you start sucking me off.” The bluntness was a shield, a way to maintain some control over the sudden shift in atmosphere.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling against your back. His arms tightened possessively. “I can't help it, princess,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear now, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that always did things to your insides. “You smell so good. Is it a new perfume? Did you raid the Med-jack supplies?” He nuzzled deeper into the crook of your neck, inhaling audibly.

Perfume? In the Glade? Is he serious? Or just... flirting? Feels like he’s trying to inhale me. Before you could formulate a reply, another voice, smooth and laced with amusement, cut through the quiet rustle.

“Of course not, Tommy. That’s just the way she smells.” Newt’s voice came from your left, near the thick trunk of another oak.

Oh, for goodness sake. Both of them? You rolled your eyes skyward, a small smile tugging at your lips despite your attempt at annoyance. “Newt,” you sighed, tilting your head slightly to see him leaning casually against the tree, his golden hair catching the light, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “You too?”

He pushed off the trunk, his movements fluid and deliberate as he closed the distance. His gaze was warm, appreciative, tracing the line of your neck where Thomas was currently preoccupied. “What can I say, love?” Newt’s voice was softer than Thomas’s, but no less intense. “You smell good. Heavenly, actually.” He stopped just behind Thomas, his eyes locked on yours. “It’s strange that no one else has smelled it or tried to take you here and now.” The implication in his words, the possessive gleam in his hazel eyes, sent another, different kind of shiver through you.

Take me? Here? Newt saying that... shuck. The casual intensity was overwhelming. Your focus shattered. The small knife slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, landing silently in the thick bed of moss and pine needles at your feet. You twisted fully in Thomas’s arms to face them both, your back now to the tree you’d been carving. “Guys,” you protested, trying for firmness, but your voice came out a little breathless. You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I'm not even in heat, how can you smell anything?” The logical argument felt flimsy against the sheer physicality of their presence and the heat blooming under your skin.

Thomas’s dark eyes, usually so full of restless energy, were now fixed on you with a predatory intensity that made your breath catch. A slow, confident grin spread across his face. “We don't need you to be in heat to smell you, baby,” he declared, his voice rough. Then, without warning, he threw himself forward, one hand cradling the back of your head, his lips claiming yours in a demanding kiss. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry, possessive.

Oh shuck! Your inner monologue short-circuited. You grunted in surprise against his mouth, your hands instinctively flying up. One landed on his shoulder, the other tangled in the thick, dark hair at his nape, mirroring his grip on yours. The protest died unspoken. His kiss was like a spark to tinder, igniting a warmth that spread rapidly through your core. You felt his other hand slide down, fingers finding the swell of your breast through your worn shirt, his thumb brushing over your nipple, already tightening beneath the fabric. A low sigh escaped you, muffled by his lips. So much for carving...

Newt, watching with a satisfied glint in his eyes, saw the moment your resistance crumbled. Not one to be left out, he moved with silent efficiency. He slid in behind you, his chest pressing against your back, sandwiching you between them. His hands, cool and deft compared to Thomas’s heat, found the laces at the sides of your pants. You felt the subtle tug as he began loosening them. Simultaneously, his fingers worked at the knots holding your lightweight overshirt closed over your arms. The fabric loosened, and with a few practiced tugs, Newt pulled the shirt down and off your arms, letting it pool around your waist, leaving you in just your thin, practical bra and the loosened pants.

The sudden exposure to the cool forest air made your skin pebble, but it was quickly countered by the radiating heat from both boys. Thomas broke the kiss, panting slightly, his eyes dark and dilated as they dropped to your now-bare torso. He didn't hesitate, his hand sliding fully under the cup of your bra, his palm rough and warm against your bare breast. He squeezed gently, then more firmly, his thumb circling your nipple again, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

“Guys, honestly…” you managed to gasp out, trying to summon some semblance of protest, your voice shaky. This is ridiculous... out in the open... someone could see... But the thought fragmented as Thomas lowered his head, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck to your collarbone, while his hand continued its delicious assault.

Your protest fell on utterly deaf ears. Thomas was lost in the taste of your skin, his mouth moving lower, towards the swell of your breast. Newt, having successfully loosened your pants enough to slip his hand beneath the waistband at your hip, nuzzled the sensitive spot behind your ear. His breath was hot as he murmured, “Let us taste you, darling.” His hand slid lower, fingers seeking the warmth between your legs, even through the fabric of your underwear.

Taste... oh god. The dual assault, Thomas’s mouth on your breast, Newt’s hands and breath on your neck and hip, was overwhelming. A wave of pure, heady desire washed over you, erasing the last vestiges of resistance. You tipped your head back against Newt’s shoulder, a breathy moan escaping your lips. Your fingers tightened in Thomas’s hair, not pushing him away, but holding him closer.

With a roll of your eyes that was more fond surrender than actual annoyance, you managed a husky whisper, “Yes, yes, go ahead, darling.” The permission, however reluctantly given, was all they needed. They continued their ministrations with renewed fervor, their lips and hands claiming every inch of exposed skin they could reach, lost in the intoxicating scent and feel of you, the Deadheads fading into a hazy backdrop of sensation.

The cool air of the Deadheads suddenly felt electric against your exposed skin as Newt’s clever fingers finished loosening the laces on your pants. The worn fabric sagged low on your hips, held up only by the barest tension. Before you could even process the increased vulnerability, Thomas was moving. He slid down your body with startling speed, his knees hitting the mossy ground with a soft thud. His hands, rough from work but incredibly sure, immediately found the juncture of your thighs.

His fingers brushed over the thin cotton of your underwear, right over the undeniable, damp warmth that had bloomed there. A low, masculine chuckle vibrated against your lower belly as he pressed his palm firmly against the wet spot. "Already so wet for us, princess?" he teased, his voice thick and dark with desire. He looked up at you, his eyes burning with intent, even as he leaned forward and captured one of your nipples, still pebbled and sensitive from Newt's earlier attention, into the hot cavern of his mouth. He sucked hard, the dual sensation – his teasing words, his possessive mouth on your breast – sending a fresh wave of heat flooding between your legs.

"Shuck off, Tommy," you gasped, but the protest was weak, drowned out by the sheer intensity of his touch. Your hand instinctively flew to his dark hair, fingers tangling in the strands. You didn't push him away; instead, you pulled, a sharp, demanding tug that drew a low, guttural groan from deep in his chest. The vibration against your nipple was exquisite torture.

God, the way he groans… like he’s the one being wrecked just by touching me. Your inner monologue was a frantic mess of sensation and disbelief. And this wetness… stupid body betraying me… out here… anyone could…

Newt, pressed flush against your back, took advantage of your distraction. His mouth latched onto your other breast, his tongue swirling around the nipple before sucking with equal fervor. His hands roamed your torso, one anchoring you against him, the other sliding down to grip your hip possessively. You were bracketed by heat, by demanding mouths, by hands that claimed. Your free hand reached back, fumbling blindly for Newt’s shirt. Frustration warred with urgency. "Off," you managed to rasp against Thomas's hair. "Get this… shuck… off."

Thomas released your nipple with a wet pop, his breath hot on your damp skin. He helped, his hands joining yours in a frenzy of pulling and tearing at Newt’s laces and buttons. Fabric ripped slightly, but neither of you cared. Newt shrugged impatiently, letting you yank his shirt open and push it down his arms. His chest, lean and defined, was suddenly bare against your back, his skin fever-hot. You twisted, grabbing at the hem of Thomas’s shirt next, pulling it ruthlessly over his head. He emerged, hair mussed, eyes blazing, his own arousal straining visibly against the front of his pants.

You barely had a second to register the sight before Thomas surged back between your legs. His hands hooked into the waistband of your panties and pants together, yanking them down your thighs just enough. Then, without preamble, his mouth was there. Not gentle exploration, but a deliberate, hot swipe of his tongue right through the soaked cotton, directly over your aching clit.

You jolted, a choked sound escaping you. Then he hooked his fingers into the fabric, pulling it aside, and his tongue – broad, hot, and insistent – licked a firm stripe directly through your slick folds. The sensation was so sudden, so intimate, so much that you screamed. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but a shocking, intense stretch of pure sensation, a direct connection to the core of the heat pooling inside you. "Fuck! Tommy!" you cried out, your fingers tightening convulsively in his hair, holding on for dear life as he buried his face between your thighs.

Oh god oh god oh god! Your mind blanked. His tongue… inside… it’s… it’s… Coherent thought vanished, replaced by a white-hot buzz of pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. It felt good, overwhelmingly good, a deep, primal satisfaction that made your knees tremble. He did it again, licking deep, then swirling his tongue around your clit, sucking gently before delving back inside. You writhed against his mouth and against Newt’s solid chest behind you, gasping incoherent pleas.

Newt’s mouth left your breast, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses up your neck to your ear. "That’s it, love," he murmured, his voice rough. "Let him taste you. Let him make you scream." His hand slid down your stomach, fingers tangling in the dark curls Thomas hadn't covered, his touch possessive, encouraging.

Thomas feasted, his groans mingling with your cries. He was relentless, his tongue exploring, claiming, driving you higher with every lick, every suck. You felt the coil tightening deep in your belly, the pressure building frighteningly fast. But just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, Thomas pulled back slightly, breathing hard against your wet skin. His eyes met yours, dark and feral. "Need more," he growled, the words vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "Need to be inside you."

Before you could process the shift, strong hands were turning you. Thomas guided you firmly until your back was pressed against the rough bark of the ancient oak you’d been carving earlier. The texture scraped your skin, a sharp counterpoint to the liquid fire Thomas had ignited. Newt moved fluidly beside Thomas, his eyes never leaving yours. Both of them were breathing heavily, their chests glistening with a faint sheen of sweat in the dappled light. And both, with movements that were almost synchronized in their urgency, were shoving their pants and underwear down just enough to free their straining erections.

They stood before you, Thomas slightly in front, Newt beside him, both gloriously hard, their cocks thick and flushed with need. The sight, combined with the lingering buzz of Thomas’s tongue and the scrape of bark against your spine, stole your breath. Newt’s gaze was intense, pleading yet commanding. "Please, darling," he begged, his voice raw. "Just… just let us have one inside you. One at a time. We need to feel you. Need you so badly."

One inside… which one? How? The logistics were a blur. The sheer, desperate hunger on their faces, the raw physical evidence of their desire, was overwhelming. Your own body screamed for relief, for that stretch, that fullness. The coil Thomas had wound so tight demanded release.

You breathed heavily, the air thick with the scent of pine, earth, sweat, and sex. Your legs felt shaky, but the need was a physical force. Without a word, driven by a hunger that matched theirs, you sank to your knees on the hard, uneven ground. Pine needles and small twigs dug into your bare skin, a sharp discomfort instantly registered and then dismissed. Your eyes locked on Newt’s cock, the elegant length of him, the bead of moisture glistening at the tip. You leaned forward, your lips parting.

Open. Take him. Please him. Your thoughts were primal, singular. You wrapped your lips around the head of Newt’s cock, tasting salt and skin. A low, ragged groan tore from his throat as you took him deeper into your mouth, your tongue swirling. "Oh, fuck, love… yes…" he choked out, his hand coming to rest gently on the back of your head, not forcing, just holding.

At the same time, you felt Thomas move behind you. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly, angling you forward. Then, the blunt, hot pressure of him, slick with your own arousal and his, pressed against your entrance. He didn’t thrust, not yet. He rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked folds, gathering more wetness, teasing the sensitive opening. You moaned around Newt’s length, the vibration drawing another deep groan from him.

"Ready, baby?" Thomas’s voice was thick, strained. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hollow your cheeks around Newt, taking him deeper, your eyes fluttering shut. It was answer enough. Thomas pushed forward, slowly, inexorably. The stretch was intense, a delicious burn that made you gasp against Newt’s cock. Thomas groaned, a sound of pure relief and pleasure. "Shuck… so tight… so fucking perfect…"

He seated himself fully inside you with one smooth, deep thrust. The feeling of being filled, stretched, claimed by Thomas while your mouth was filled by Newt, was utterly overwhelming. Both men groaned in unison, a deep, resonant sound of absolute satisfaction that echoed in the quiet glade. "Feels… so good…" Thomas gasped, beginning to move, shallow thrusts at first.

Full… so full… Your mind fragmented. The hard ground under your knees, the bark against your back, the thick heat of Newt in your mouth, the deep, stretching glide of Thomas inside you, the sounds of their pleasure… it was a sensory overload, a perfect, consuming storm of need and satisfaction. You surrendered to it, to them, letting the rhythm they set carry you away into the heart of the Deadheads.

The rhythm began, a primal, driving pulse that thrummed through all three of you. Thomas’s hips pistoned against your backside, each deep thrust sending shockwaves up your spine, driving you forward onto Newt’s cock still filling your mouth. Your own hips rocked back instinctively, meeting Thomas’s power with a desperate need of your own. Newt’s fingers tightened gently in your hair, guiding your movements on him, his low moans vibrating against your lips as you sucked and hollowed your cheeks.

Thrust. Suck. Rock. Meet him. Your world narrowed to the points of connection: the hard heat of Thomas stretching you deep inside, the thick length of Newt sliding over your tongue, the rough bark scraping your shoulder blades with each powerful drive. They found a brutal, perfect pace – Thomas slamming home, forcing you onto Newt, who pushed deeper into your throat with your forward motion. Moans and choked cries filled the small clearing, your name gasped and groaned by both voices, a desperate, possessive litany. "Y/N... fuck... yes... take it..." Thomas gritted out. "So good, love... swallowing me..." Newt rasped.

It should have been humiliating. You, the undisputed leader of the Glade, the one who commanded respect, who made the hard calls, brought to your knees in the dirt of the Deadheads? By these two? Thomas, the Greenie who’d turned everything upside down, and Newt, your steadfast second, now seeing you like this? Pathetic.

Queen on her knees, a cynical part of your mind sneered. But another voice, deeper, hotter, roared back. But didn’t you bring them to theirs? Didn’t you make the Runner and the Right-Hand man whimper and beg? The memory of their submission, their desperate need for you, surged through the haze of pleasure. This wasn’t weakness. This was power. Your power. They were lost in you, driven wild by you, fucking you hard because you allowed it, because you stoked this fire.

Enough submission. The thought crystallized, sharp and clear even through the sensory overload. Time they remember who holds the reins.

Newt stiffened first. A tremor ran through him, his cock swelling impossibly harder against your palate. A guttural, choked sound escaped him. "Y/N... gonna...!" He didn't finish. His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt down your throat in a final, brutal thrust. You choked, gagging violently as hot, thick spurts of semen flooded your mouth, coating your tongue, sliding down your throat. Tears sprang to your eyes, the sensation overwhelming, almost painful in its intensity.

The violent constriction of your throat around Newt triggered Thomas. He cried out, a raw, broken sound. "OH GOD! Y/N!" His thrusts became frantic, shallow, desperate. You felt your own inner muscles flutter and clamp down hard around him in an involuntary spasm, the peak you’d been teetering on crashing over you. Pleasure, white-hot and blinding, exploded through your core, radiating outwards. Thomas gasped, his body locking, and then he was pulsing deep inside you, filling you with his own release, his moans mingling with your choked whimpers and Newt’s ragged gasps.

The frantic energy dissolved instantly. Newt softened, slipping from your mouth with a wet sound. You slumped forward, coughing, tears tracking through the sweat and dirt on your cheeks. Thomas pulled out slowly, a groan escaping him as he collapsed beside you. Newt sank down heavily on your other side. For a moment, there was only the sound of harsh breathing and the distant sounds of the Glade.

Then, instinct took over. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, ignoring the sticky mess between your legs and the lingering taste on your tongue. You reached out, pulling Thomas closer with one arm, then Newt with the other. They came willingly, collapsing against your sides, their bodies heavy and spent, faces buried against your shoulders. Their breathing hitched – not just exertion, but the ragged edge of sobs.

"Shh," you murmured, your voice surprisingly steady despite the rasp. You stroked Thomas's damp hair, then Newt's. "You both did so well." Your praise was low, intimate, laced with the absolute authority they craved. "Perfect for me. Exactly what I needed."

"Thank you..." Thomas mumbled against your skin, his voice thick with emotion and exhaustion. Newt just nodded, a shudder running through him, a quiet sob escaping as he pressed closer. "Y/N..." he breathed, the name a prayer.

You leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Thomas's sweaty forehead, then repeating the gesture on Newt's. The tenderness was a stark contrast to the raw passion moments before, a reminder of the bond beneath the frenzy. Then, you leaned back, looking at their flushed, dazed faces, a slow, knowing smile curving your lips.

"Next time," you stated, your voice dropping to a low, commanding purr that promised delicious retribution, "I'll be the one riding your cocks. Both of you. Until you forget your own names."

Minho: Yeah, what’s up? Lemme guess. You and Newt are having problems and you want me to teach you how to kiss?