WORSHIP [10]
Pairings: (Y/N) x Various (Maze Runner cast, Stray Kids members, and more)
Synopsis: (Y/N) is an actress harboring a literal monster inside her—a dark, possessive entity that has a mind of its own when it comes to choosing her pack. After losing her original pack (Stray Kids) in a tragic firefight, she finds herself drawn to the Maze Runner cast, who become her new obsession. But navigating love, grief, and a creature that demands she claim them all is a delicate balancing act—especially when the lines between acting and reality begin to blur.
Warnings: Dark themes, possessive behavior, mentions of death and grief, slow-burn romantic tension, supernatural elements, emotional angst, touch-starved yearning, mild violence (canon-typical for the Maze Runner universe), implications of obsession and unhealthy attachment
Word Count: Varies by scene (typically 1,500–3,000+ words per installment)
The Glade's walls rose around you like the ribs of some ancient, forgotten beast—gray stone baking under a sun that had no mercy, no name, no origin you could recall. You clutched your belongings tighter, the worn fabric of your pack digging into your palms, the leather strap you'd wrapped around your wrist a dozen times over the past... how long had it been? You'd lost count of the days since you'd stepped through the Box, since you'd stumbled into this nightmare of towering stone and screaming ivy.
But it wasn't the stone that made your chest ache.
It was the absence.
Your breath came in shallow, ragged pulls as you stood there, just outside the homestead, the heavy wooden door a barrier between you and the ghosts that lived in your ribs. Chan. Changbin. Jisung. Felix. The names were a litany in your head, a prayer you'd whispered into the dark of the Maze when the Grievers' screeching drowned out every other sound. They'd laid down their lives for you—stepped between you and the monsters that had chased you through the Scorch, through the desert, through the crumbling ruins of a world that had never been yours to begin with.
And now they were gone.
And you were here, with strangers who looked at you with wary, guarded eyes, who didn't know the weight of what you'd left behind, what you'd lost.
This is my new pack now, you reminded yourself, the words hollow, meaningless. This is where I belong. This is where I survive.
But the house they'd given you smelled wrong—like dry earth and sweat, not like the familiar, comforting scent of bodies pressed close in the dark, of laughter and late-night whispers and the way Felix's hand had always found yours in the chaos of a Griever attack. The mattress was coarse beneath your fingers, the blankets threadbare and rough.
I don't want to be here, the thought screamed, raw and jagged. I want to go back. I want—
"Hey. You okay?"
The voice cut through your spiral like a blade—warm, low, edged with something you couldn't quite name.
You turned, and there he was.
Dylan. Thomas. The name slid through your mind like honey, sweet and slow, clinging to the edges of your thoughts. He stood a few feet away, head tilted, his hazel eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. His hair was a mess of dark waves, sweat-damp and curling at his temples, and his shirt—a worn, frayed thing that had seen better days—clung to the broad line of his shoulders, the definition of his chest.
He's looking at me. The realization hit you like a blow to the gut, stole the air from your lungs. He's really looking at me—not like I'm a stranger, not like I'm just another Greenie. He's looking at me like—
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Thomas continued, taking a step closer. His voice was gentle, almost coaxing, and you could see the lines of worry etched into his brow, the slight downturn of his mouth. "I know the Glade takes some getting used to. But you've been standing here for, like, ten minutes. Just staring at the door."
You blinked, and the world snapped back into focus—the grit beneath your shoes, the cloying heat of the air, the distant sound of the Maze's walls grinding their slow, terrible shift. "I'm fine," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected. "I was just... thinking."
"Yeah." Thomas's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, was too sharp, too knowing. "I can tell." He took another step, then another, until he was close enough that you could see the dust clinging to his collar, the faint scar that traced a jagged line down his jaw. His eyes searched yours, and there was something almost desperate in them—a hunger, a need to understand, to break through the walls you'd built around yourself.
He sees me, the thought whispered, and your chest tightened. He sees the cracks, the places where I'm bleeding out. He sees the ghosts.
"Newt's been looking for you," Thomas said, breaking the silence. "Said you missed breakfast, and he wanted to make sure you weren't holed up in your room all day. He's a worrier." A pause. "We all are, I guess."
You laughed—a short, brittle sound that you barely recognized as your own. "You don't even know me."
"No." Thomas's gaze didn't waver. "But I know what it looks like when someone's carrying a weight they don't want to put down." He extended his hand, palm up, fingers slightly curled. An offering. A question. "Come on. Let me show you around. Properly."
His hands are so big, the thought came unbidden, dizzying. Look at them—the calluses on his palms, the way his fingers are always moving, never still. What would it feel like to hold one? To feel those rough edges against my skin, to feel him squeeze back, to feel—
You reached out before you could stop yourself, and your fingers brushed his.
It was brief—barely a second, barely a whisper of contact—but the heat of his skin seared through you, sent a shockwave of sensation racing up your arm, down your spine, pooling somewhere deep in your chest. His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly, and you saw the way his pupils dilated, the way his jaw tightened.
Oh.
Oh, this is dangerous.
"You're trembling," he said, and his voice was lower now, rougher. He turned his hand, and his fingers wrapped around yours, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the feel of you. "Are you cold? We can—"
"I'm not cold." The words came out breathless, barely a whisper. "I'm just... I'm not used to being here. To being around people who don't..." Who don't know what I've done, what I've lost, who I had to leave behind.
Thomas's eyes softened, and he squeezed your hand once, twice, a grounding pressure that anchored you to the present. "You don't have to be used to it," he said gently. "Not yet. Just... let us help you. Let me help you."
The way he looks at me, the thought raced, frantic and sharp. The way he looks at me like I'm the only person in the world—like I matter, like I'm not just another body in this godforsaken place. I want to fall into him. I want to let him catch me.
"The others are waiting," Thomas said, and he tugged your hand gently, pulling you into motion. "Minho's probably going to make fun of me for being soft. And Newt's definitely going to give me that look—you know the one, the 'you're being too obvious, you wanker' look."
You laughed again, and this time it was real—surprised out of you, warm and bright. "I don't even know what that look looks like."
"You will." Thomas shot you a grin over his shoulder, and the sight of it—crooked, genuine, utterly devastating—made your knees go weak. "Believe me, you will."
He led you across the Glade, and you let yourself be led, let yourself be swept along by the warmth of his hand in yours, by the steady rhythm of his steps beside you. The sun beat down on your shoulders, unforgiving and relentless, but somehow the heat felt less oppressive now, less suffocating.
This is insane, you told yourself. I shouldn't be feeling this. I shouldn't be letting myself feel anything at all.
But Thomas's thumb was tracing slow circles on the back of your hand, and when you glanced at him, his eyes were on the horizon—but his attention was all on you.
He saved me, the thought came, unbidden and fierce. He doesn't know it, but he did. He pulled me out of my own head, out of the dark. He made me feel like I'm not alone.
"Hey," Thomas said softly, and you realized you'd stopped walking. "You okay?"
You looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, the world fell away. The Glade, the Maze, the Scorch, the ghosts of your old pack—all of it faded into white noise. All that was left was him. His hazel eyes, warm and searching. His hand, steady and sure in yours. The quiet, aching certainty that this boy, this man, this stranger, would burn down the world for you if you asked.
"I will be," you said, and your voice was steadier than it had been in days. "I think... I think I will be."
Thomas's smile softened, and he squeezed your hand. "Good. That's good."
He doesn't know, you thought, and the realization hit you like a wave. He doesn't know what he's doing to me. He doesn't know that every touch, every glance, every word is carving a space for himself in my chest that I don't know how to fill. He doesn't know that I'm already falling.
That I'm already his.
"Come on," he said, and tugged you forward again. "The others are going to love you. Trust me."
You didn't trust him.
Not yet.
But as you followed him into the sun, into the chaos of the Glade, into the strange, terrifying, beautiful possibility of this new life, you let yourself hope.
And that, you realized, was the most dangerous thing of all.
SCENEBREAK
The LA skyline bled orange and pink through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the rooftop bar, the city sprawling beneath you like a living, breathing thing. You gripped the stem of your champagne flute so hard your knuckles went white, the glass cool against your clammy palm, and tried to ignore the way your skin itched—the way something dark and ancient coiled beneath your ribs, stirring at the edges of your consciousness like a beast waking from a long, deep sleep.
Not now, you thought, the words a desperate mantra. Not here. Not with them.
But the monster inside you didn't listen. It never did.
It had chosen them—the Maze Runner cast, Dylan and Thomas and Ki Hong and Will and all the rest—the moment you'd stepped onto that soundstage for the first table read. You'd felt it then, that sharp, possessive pull, the way your inner darkness had latched onto their warmth like a starving thing finally finding prey. They were your new pack now, whether you liked it or not. The monster had decided.
And you still missed your old one.
Chan. Changbin. Jisung. Felix. The names were a litany of grief, a wound that refused to scar over. They'd laid down their lives for you—not in some metaphorical, Hollywood sense, but literally, in a firefight that had left you the sole survivor, clutching Felix's bloodied jacket and screaming into the void. They'd been your pack, your family, your everything. And now they were gone, and you were here, pretending to be a normal actress with a normal life, while a literal monster clawed at the inside of your chest and demanded you claim these new people as your own.
"You look like you're about to bolt."
The voice cut through your spiral, and you turned to find Kaya—your co-star, your friend, the only person in this godforsaken industry who knew about the monster, who'd seen you lose control once and hadn't run screaming. She stood beside you, her cocktail dangling from manicured fingers, her sharp eyes narrowing with concern.
"I'm fine," you lied, and the word tasted like ash. "Just... thinking."
"About the Stray Kids?" Kaya's voice softened, and she stepped closer, her shoulder brushing yours. "Or about the way Dylan's been staring at you all night?"
Your gaze flicked across the room, almost against your will, and there he was—Dylan O'Brien, leaning against the bar, his dark hair artfully tousled, his hazel eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. He was laughing at something Thomas Brodie-Sangster had said, but his attention was on you, a laser focus that burned through the crowd, through the noise, through every wall you'd built around yourself.
He sees me, the thought came, frantic and electric. He sees the cracks, the places where the monster leaks through. He doesn't know what he's looking at, but he's looking anyway.
"So," Kaya said, drawing out the syllable with theatrical glee, "you're telling me you and Dylan are dating?"
Your face flushed. The monster in your chest stirred, a low, possessive growl that you barely managed to suppress. "Kaya, don't—"
She laughed, bright and unrepentant, earning a few curious glances from the nearby cast and crew. "Oh, come on. You think I haven't noticed? The way you two orbit each other like planets? The way he offers you his jacket every time the AC kicks on? The way you look at him like he's the last glass of water in the desert?" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And don't think I haven't seen the way Thomas and Will are going to be so heartbroken when they find out their best mate's been sneaking off with you."
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "We aren't dating," you said, the words sharp, defensive. "We're just... we're just seeing."
"Seeing?" Kaya's eyebrow shot up. "Seeing what, exactly? The inside of each other's trailers?"
She's not going to let this go. The monster in your chest growled again, restless, hungry. She's going to keep poking until I break.
You drew a sharp breath, the air tasting of expensive perfume and city smog and the faint, cloying sweetness of the champagne you'd barely touched. "We are just seeing where it goes," you said, each word deliberate, a shield. "Remember? I had a mate in Stray Kids too."
The name fell like a stone, and the weight of it crashed through you. Chan's steady hand on your shoulder. Changbin's gruff laughter. Jisung's ridiculous jokes. Felix's bright, blinding smile. They'd been your pack, your heart, your reason to keep fighting. And now they were ash and memory, and you were here, pretending like you could just move on, like the monster inside you hadn't marked them as yours and then watched them burn.
Kaya's smile faded, replaced by something softer, sadder. "I know," she said quietly. "I know you did."
Your voice cracked. "They laid down their lives for me. Every single one of them. And I'm here, at a wrap party, pretending like I can just... start over."
The monster wants to start over. The monster wants to claim Dylan, wants to sink its claws into him and never let go. But I can't. I can't betray them like that.
Kaya reached out and took your hand, her fingers warm, grounding. "No one's asking you to forget them," she said firmly. "But you can't live in the past either. You know that. They wouldn't want that."
She's right. She's always right. But the thought was bitter, a knife twisting in your gut. Knowing that doesn't make it any easier to look at Dylan without seeing Chan's ghost.
"You've got people who care about you," Kaya continued, her voice soft but relentless. "Dylan, Thomas, Minho, Newt—they're not replacements. They're not your old pack. But they're something. And the monster inside you—" She lowered her voice, her eyes scanning the room to make sure no one was listening. "—it chose them for a reason. You don't have to understand it yet. You just have to let yourself feel it."
Feel it. The words echoed in your skull, and you thought of Dylan's hand on your lower back during the table read, the way his thumb had traced lazy circles through the fabric of your shirt. You thought of Thomas's quiet, steady presence, the way he always seemed to know when you needed a moment alone. You thought of Minho's gruff jokes, Newt's gentle teasing, Will's easy smile.
They weren't your old pack. But they were here. And the monster inside you was hungry.
"It's not that simple," you finally said, your voice rough, scraped raw. "Dylan—he's... he's something. But I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I can let myself..."
"Fall?" Kaya offered gently.
You looked up, and the word was there, heavy on your tongue, too painful to speak. But Kaya's eyes were patient, understanding, and you realized she already knew. She'd known from the moment she'd seen you and Dylan standing too close at the craft services table, breathing the same air, stealing glances when you thought no one was looking.
"Yeah," you whispered. "That."
Kaya squeezed your hand. "Then don't fall," she said simply. "Just... lean. Let him catch you. And if you fall anyway—" She smiled, fierce and bright. "—you've got me. And I'll catch you too."
She means it. The warmth of her words spread through you, quieting the monster's restless hunger, just for a moment.
You opened your mouth to respond, to thank her, to tell her that she was the best thing that had happened to you since you'd crawled out of that burning building—but before you could speak, a shadow fell over you.
"Sorry to interrupt."
You turned, and your heart stopped.
Dylan stood there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his shirt untucked, his hair a disaster. He was flushed, like he'd been running, and there was a smudge of something—chocolate?—on his jaw that you desperately wanted to wipe away.
He's so close. He's so close, and the monster is purring, and I can't—
"We've got a problem," Dylan said, his voice low, urgent. "The studio execs are here, and they're asking about reshoots. They want to talk to you. Specifically."
Kaya raised an eyebrow. "Me or her?"
Dylan's gaze flicked to you, and in that moment, the rest of the world fell away. The noise, the music, the clinking glasses, the laughter—all of it faded until there was only him, only the desperate, searching look in his hazel eyes.
"Her," he said, and his voice dropped, roughened, the way it always did when he was nervous. "I need her."
He needs me. The thought was a wildfire, burning through your veins, drowning out every doubt, every hesitation. He needs me, and the monster is screaming, and I don't know if I can control it.
You were on your feet before you'd made the conscious decision to move. "I'm coming," you said, and your voice was steadier than you felt. "Kaya, I'll—"
"Go." She waved you off, but her smile was knowing, warm. "I'll hold down the fort. Try not to eat anyone."
Dylan's hand found yours, and the heat of his palm was a brand, a promise. He pulled you away from the bar, through the crowd, toward the elevators.
And as you walked beside him, your heart pounding, the monster in your chest purring with satisfaction, you let yourself lean.
Just a little.
Just enough to feel him there, solid and real, a bulwark against the ghosts that still haunted you.
I don't know where this is going, you thought, the words a prayer, a plea. I don't know if I'm ready. But I'm here. He's here. And the monster chose him.
So I'll let it.
I'll let myself want.
SCENEBREAK
The soundstage buzzed with that particular brand of controlled chaos that only existed on film sets—crew members darting between cables and cameras, the low hum of lighting rigs, the distant murmur of dialogue being rehearsed somewhere in the background. You stood in the center of it all, your costume—a tattered, blood-stained version of your character's final outfit—clinging to your sweat-damp skin, the weight of the prop sword heavy in your hand.
"This way," came Wes's voice, and you turned to see your director approaching with a crypt in each hand, his signature beanie perched on his head, his eyes bright with the manic energy of a man who'd just cracked the perfect shot. He handed one to you and one to Dylan, who stood beside you, his own costume rumpled, his hazel eyes dark with something that looked almost like grief.
He's already in character, you thought, and the monster inside you stirred, restless, hungry. He's already mourning me, and we haven't even started filming yet.
Thomas Brodie-Sangster and Will Poulter stood behind you, their muscular arms crossed, their expressions carefully neutral. Thomas—Newt—was already slipping into his role, his jaw tight, his eyes lined with the kind of desperate, aching sadness that made your chest clench.
Will—Gally—was harder to read, his gaze flicking between you and Dylan with an intensity that made the monster in your chest growl.
Protective, the monster purred. He's protective of you. Good. Let him be.
"I'm sorry that your character has to die, (Y/N)," Wes said, and his voice was genuinely apologetic, his hand coming up to rest on your shoulder. "I really am. But it's for the plot. The emotional beat—it's going to wreck audiences. You understand that, right?"
You forced a smile, the expression stiff and brittle on your face. "No, it's fine," you said, and your voice came out steady, professional, the voice of an actress who'd done this a hundred times before. "I get it."
I get it. I get that I'm about to die on screen while the man I'm falling for watches. I get that the monster inside me is going to lose its collective mind when it sees Dylan's face twisted with grief, even if it's just acting. I get that I'm going to have to choke back real tears because this is too close to home, too close to the night I watched Felix die in my arms.
Wes squeezed your shoulder once, then stepped back, clapping his hands together. "Alright, everyone! Places! We're going for one perfect take. (Y/N), Dylan—I need you to give me everything. And I mean everything. This is the emotional climax of the film. The audience needs to feel every second of it."
Dylan's hand found yours, warm and steady, and he squeezed once, twice, a grounding pressure that anchored you to the present.
"You've got this," he murmured, so low only you could hear. "I've got you."
He's got me. The monster is screaming, but he's got me.
You took your place on the set—a crumbling stone courtyard, the walls draped in fake ivy, the sky a painted backdrop that would be replaced with CGI later. The other actors scattered to their positions, and you felt the weight of their gazes on you, felt the hum of anticipation that always preceded a big scene.
And then Wes called "Action!" and the world shifted.
The scene played out like a nightmare you'd lived a thousand times before. The fight, the chaos, the moment when the sword—the prop sword, you reminded yourself, just a prop—slipped through your character's defenses and plunged into her chest. You gasped, the sound raw and real, and the pain—imaginary, you told yourself, all imaginary—bloomed through your ribs like a flower made of fire.
You stumbled, and Dylan—Thomas—caught you, his arms wrapping around you, lowering you to the ground with a gentleness that made your heart ache.
"No, no, no—" His voice cracked, broke, and you saw the tears in his eyes, the desperation on his face. "Stay with me. Stay with me. Please. You can't—"
You reached up, your hand trembling, and touched his cheek. The contact was electric, a jolt that shot through you, and the monster inside you screamed.
He's grieving. He's grieving for you. Even though it's fake, even though it's just a scene, the grief is real. The grief is real, and I want to keep it, want to hold it, want to drown in it.
"It's okay," you whispered, and your voice was thin, reedy, the voice of someone already halfway to the other side. "It's okay, Thomas. I'm not scared."
"I'm scared," he choked out, and the tears were streaming down his face now, real tears, and you knew he was acting, knew this was just a scene, but the monster in your chest didn't care—the monster fed on this, on the raw, unfiltered emotion pouring off him. "I'm scared. I can't do this without you. I can't—"
"You can," you said, and you forced the words out, each one a struggle. "You're the strongest person I know. You're going to survive this. You're going to survive... and you're going to find a way out of this maze. I know you will."
This is too close. This is too close to Felix. To Chan. To the night I watched them burn.
Your vision blurred, and the tears that spilled down your cheeks weren't acting anymore—they were real, raw, the grief of everything you'd lost, everyone you'd loved, everyone the monster had claimed and then watched die.
"I love you," you said, and the words came out broken, jagged, a confession and a goodbye all at once. "I love you, Thomas. Don't forget that. Don't forget—"
Your hand slipped from his cheek, and you let your head fall back, let your eyes slide closed, let yourself go limp in his arms.
And for a moment—just a moment—the world went silent.
Then Wes's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and triumphant. "Cut! That was perfect. That was so good, you guys. Oh my god, that was incredible."
The spell broke.
Dylan's arms tightened around you, and you felt him exhale, a shaky, relieved breath that ruffled your hair. "You okay?" he murmured, and his voice was still rough, still raw with the emotion of the scene. "That was... that was intense."
You opened your eyes, and the lights of the soundstage were blinding, the crew already buzzing with activity, resetting for the next shot. But all you could see was Dylan's face, still flushed with tears, still caught in the aftermath of the scene.
"I'm fine," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected. "I'm fine. I just—"
The monster in your chest surged, a wave of possessive, territorial heat that made your breath catch.
He was crying for you. He was grieving for you. He loves you. The grief is real, and the love is real, and I won't let him go. I won't. He's ours.
You pushed yourself upright, and Dylan's hands lingered on your shoulders, steadying you, grounding you.
"That was incredible," Thomas said, appearing at your side, his face still pale, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears. He'd been watching from the wings, you realized, and he'd been crying. "You guys... that was so real. I actually believed it."
"Because it was real," Will said, his voice gruff, and his hand came down on your shoulder, a firm, grounding pressure. "That was raw. That was authentic. Wes is going to lose his mind in the editing room."
They're circling, the monster purred, and you felt it—felt them—the way Thomas's eyes lingered on you, the way Will's hand stayed on your shoulder a beat too long, the way Dylan was still touching you, still holding you, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
They're all circling. They're all protective. They're all ours.
Wes bounded over, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face. "That was amazing. You guys are magic together. Absolutely magic." He clapped Dylan on the back, then turned to you, his eyes bright with excitement. "You made me feel it. Every second. The audience is going to be devastated."
You laughed, the sound hollow, brittle. "That's the goal, right?"
"Absolutely." Wes nodded, already distracted by something on his monitor. "Alright, everyone, take fifteen! We'll reset for the next scene. (Y/N), you did great. Seriously. Go get some water. You deserve it."
The crew dispersed, the bustle of the set filling the space around you, and you let yourself breathe.
I did it. I survived the scene. The monster is quiet. For now.
Dylan's hand found yours again, and he tugged you gently away from the chaos, toward the quiet corner where the craft services table was set up.
"You scared me in there," he said, and his voice was quiet, intimate, meant only for you. "The way you looked at me—it was like you were really dying. Like you were really saying goodbye."
Because I was, you thought, and the monster stirred, hungry and possessive. Because I've said goodbye before. Because I know how it feels to watch someone you love slip away. Because I was saying goodbye to Felix, to Chan, to everyone I lost, and you were there to catch the pieces.
But you didn't say that. Instead, you squeezed his hand and let yourself lean into his warmth.
"Just acting," you said softly. "That's all it was."
Dylan's eyes met yours, and there was something in them—something raw, something real, something that made the monster in your chest purr with satisfaction.
"Liar," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper. "That wasn't acting. That was you. All of you."
He knows. He sees the cracks. He sees the monster.
And for the first time since you'd arrived on this set, you didn't want to hide.
Let him see, the monster whispered. Let him see all of me. Let him see what he's chosen.
You reached up, your hand trembling, and traced the line of his jaw, the spot where the tears had dried on his skin.
"Maybe it was," you said, and your voice was thick with emotion, with everything you couldn't say. "Maybe I meant every word."
Dylan's breath caught, and his hand came up to cover yours, pressing your palm more firmly against his cheek.
"Good," he said, and his voice was rough, desperate. "Because I meant it too."
The monster is roaring. The monster is victorious. And I don't have the strength to fight it anymore.
You leaned in, the distance between you shrinking to nothing, and for a moment, the world went quiet.
Then someone called Dylan's name, and the spell broke.
He pulled back, his eyes still locked on yours, a promise burning in their depths.
"Later," he said, and the word was a vow. "We'll finish this later."
You nodded, unable to speak, and watched him walk away, his figure disappearing into the chaos of the set.
Later, the monster purred. Later, he'll be ours. Later, we'll claim him. Later, we'll make sure he never leaves.
And deep down, somewhere beneath the hunger, beneath the grief, beneath the weight of everything you'd lost, you let yourself hope.
Later. We'll have later.
