#gladers

[gladerscake]

Y/N: Sit down, I'm gonna torture you now.

Gally, smirking: Kinky.

Y/N: I think you're sweet and breathtaking.

Gally: What—

Y/N: You deserve to be cared for.

Gally: Stop that, now—

Y/N: Your feelings are valid and deserve to be heard.

Gally: I need a safeword!

[lostlibrarybook]

if anyone is wondering what the glade looks like…

my original drawing, adapted from The Maze Runner book with additions from the movie

i’m using this for my series called Knacker’s Yard

[tlockish]

love this gif so much. Thomas is so rabid that they literally had to haul him back like a reactive dog

[melancholilyc]

okay but imagine how many secret gay couples could have been in the Glade?? like you cannot convince me that only Newt was gay there

[ericshoney]

No one messes with her ~ Newt

Summary: Being the only female in the Glade meant that you were often targeted for jokes and teasing. It didn't bother you that much, since you often had your own comebacks, but Newt wasn't keen on the teasing.

Warnings: Possible language, Glader slang, teasing, jokes, protective!Newt.

The Glade was a rough place, but you had learned how to navigate it. Being the only girl came with its perks—like getting more attention than anyone else and its drawbacks, like being the constant target for jokes.

“Careful, she’s got a temper!” chuckled Gally, nudging someone as they walked by.

“Yeah, don’t get on her bad side,” added Frypan, smirking.

You raised an eyebrow, brushing dirt from your sleeve. “Trust me, I’m not the one to worry about.”

The laughter swelled around you, but you didn’t flinch. You never did. But then Newt appeared, stepping into the circle like a shield, his expression sharp and cold.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said, voice low but commanding.

The Gladers fell silent, the energy in the air suddenly tense. Frypan and the others exchanged awkward glances, muttering apologies as Newt’s eyes bore into them.

You looked at him, surprised. “It’s fine, Newt. Really.”

“Not fine,” he said firmly. “Not when they’re picking on you. You don’t have to take it.”

“I can handle myself,” you replied, trying to hide the small smile creeping onto your face. You appreciated his protectiveness, even if you weren’t about to admit it out loud.

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, his jaw tight. “No one messes with you. Got it?”

The words weren’t just protective - they were fierce, the kind that made even the oldest Gladers hesitate. You felt a warmth spread through your chest at the intensity of it. Newt wasn’t just standing up for you - he was staking his claim, silently making sure everyone understood that you weren’t alone.

You smirked, letting a little of your usual sass slip through. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

He studied you for a moment, eyes softening slightly. “Good. Because even if you can, I don’t want you to have to.”

You nodded, feeling a strange comfort in his unwavering gaze. Being the only girl in the Glade had always been lonely in some ways, but now, with Newt standing so firmly by your side, it didn’t feel that way at all.

And if anyone dared cross the line again… well, you had a feeling Newt would make sure they remembered exactly why they shouldn’t.

Tags:

@onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @mandmilovehim @mingis-queen97 @riowritesitall @lgbtq-girl @lateej @christopherbangsnudes

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[atydtmr]

Newt has spoken for us all.

Round of applause for him.👏

[nathalilaaa]

I headcannon that during one of the supply sends, WCKD sent one notebook per glader along with some pencils with the idea of ‘helping’ them sketch out the maze (before the replica Minho did in the map room) and instead, the gladers used them to create art, drawings, writing stories, and even journaling about their experiences with the hope that people will one day read them, see it, or appreciate it, if they don’t make it out of the glade, hoping to live through their art 💗🫶🏽

A Glader’s book is sacred, they had an unspoken agreement to never touch another person’s books no matter how angry or upset they might feel, because the books are seen as an extension of the Glader, sharing your book with another Glader was seen as the ultimate act of intimacy.

I also whole heartedly believe that it would be the only possession they take with them when they make their great scape because it’s a part of who they are and they don’t want to lose their books because it’s a symbol of the choice they had to actually express themselves instead of following WCKD’s plan, kind of like their first act of independence where they got to place their own ideas into an untouchable place instead of following what the intended use was for the books.

They also risked their own life to recuperate the books before reaching the safe heaven because they wanted to share the art, since it felt like keeping the Gladers that couldn’t make it out, alive through their art like they used to hope in the glade.

And I think is beautiful 😭💗

Also, Newt survived because is my AU and I can do whatever the fuck I want with it🧚‍♀️

[icecoldvenipuncture]

last night, for just a moment, minho wondered if he was going to die. for several days he had been plagued with splitting headaches, constant shakes, and a general feeling of weakness but had foolishly tried to ignore it. he tried to keep doing his job, but illness can catch up with even the fastest of runners.

he had collapsed onto his cot at sunset, utterly exhausted, but was woken up several hours later by a tsunami of sweat and nausea. his internal organs felt like they were boiling, yet the soft breeze of night felt freezing on his clammy skin. he had laid on top of his covers, tremoring violently and praying to any god that might be out there to make the discomfort stop for what felt like an absolutely inordinate amount of time.

in fact, he hadn’t been aware that any time had passed at all until alby had come to unceremoniously bang on his door and demand to know why he wasn’t in the maze yet. his leader had taken one sweeping glance at minho’s writhing form and had immediately called for help to carry him to the medhut.

minho had felt utterly pathetic being hoisted by his friends like an invalid, but he also knew that if he had tried to stand, he would’ve met the ground in a matter of seconds. his transporters had laid him as gingerly as they could on a cot in the back and that was when you had appeared, your cheeks tinged pink from helping the trackhoes in the garden under the morning sun.

you had hastily ordered everyone away and put up the crude privacy canvas, donning an excessively large gas mask that seemed to have found its way into last month’s box by mistake. you had assured him that the level of protection it provided was probably unnecessary, but that it was the only thing you had to shield yourself from whatever virus minho had seemed to contract.

your next set of orders had proved to be excruciatingly humiliating. you knew that minho needed to sweat this fever out a.s.a.p., no matter how uncomfortable it made him. you therefore demanded that he lose his t-shirt and work pants, but the runner’s limbs felt so leaden, he couldn’t remove his clothing himself.

you had helped to pull his shirt over his head, unbutton his pants and remove them, all while minho fantasized about having the strength to run as far as he could from this situation. you were professional, (your hands never lingered on his skin for too long), and incredibly reassuring about the ordeal but the runner couldn’t stop apologizing for being so pitifully weak and for subjecting your eyes to his nearly-naked body.

did minho sometimes dream about a girl removing his clothes? yes, obviously

but did he ever picture that the removal of these clothes would be done by a medjack to keep him from burning alive? no, fucking obviously not

did it also not help that he happened to find this particular medjack quite attractive? no comment

once he had been unpretentiously stripped, that was when the vomiting had started. minho’s face had gone a sickly shade of grey and his voice had warbled a feeble “i think i’m gonna-” before the onslaught of emesis clawed its way up through his throat and into the rusted bucket you had swiftly handed him.

he spent the following hour in a maelstrom of shakes, retches, dizziness and nausea. he had seemed to empty his stomach entirely, losing not only his lunch but his breakfast, dinner and all remaining bile that coated the organ.

it was goddamn awful. minho was fully aware that he only has memories of the past three years of his life, but he would’ve bet any amount of money that that hour of upchucking was one of the worst moments of his whole existence.

and that was minho’s morning routine today; wake up half dead, get dragged to the medhut, get stripped down, throw up until there’s nothing but stomach acid and lose all your dignity.

it’s noon now, and the midday sun is heating the stale air of the medhut to a nearly unbearable degree of warmth. minho watches your deliberate movements in front of the supply closet with slack eyelids drooping over his blown pupils.

his body is still trembling, this time with an array of goosebumps littering his tanned skin. his exterior is quite literally one hundred degrees but minho fully believes he’s slowly freezing to death.

“how are you feeling now?” you ask, crossing the room to kneel at his cot, beads of sweat visible on the wrinkles of worry that crease your forehead. your voice is muffled by the gas mask.

“c-c-cold,” the runner stammers, his bottom lip quivering.

“that’s good. i mean, it feels awful, i’m sure. but if you feel cold that means the fever’s about to break. i can’t give you a blanket until it does, i’m sorry,” you explain sympathetically, your brows knitting together.

“th-that’s ok-k” minho mutters in responses, silently cursing the faltering in his speech.

“do my hands feel warm to you?” you ask succinctly, placing both palms on one of minho’s damp forearms.

the runner’s breath hitches in his chest. there’s no way to describe the feeling that fizzles in his chest other than relief. despite his significant heart rate increase at your proximity, your touch puts him at ease.

“yeah, r-really warm” he replies breathily, trying to prevent a contented sigh from escaping his lips.

“good. earlier you said my hands felt cold,” you nod, rattling the clunky mask in the process. “just relax, minho. unfortunately now this is just a waiting game,”

as this sentence concludes, you rise from your kneeling position, giving minho a distinct feeling of loss as you lift your hands from his arms. he feels better as you reappear in his sightline a moment later, holding a stool. you place it next to his cot and sit down, leaning forward to start up a conversation that will hopefully distract him slightly from his tribulation.

“so, do you like being a runner? or is it just all work for you?” you ask comfortably, placing one of your hands on each of minho’s shoulders.

“um,” minho mutters, feeling his muscles relax under your embrace, “it’s h-hard but, at least i g-get out of here, ya know?”

“yeah, i imagine it must be nice to get away from glade politics during the day,” you chuckle, deliberately running your hands up and down his upper arms.

minho lets out an indulgent exhale against his better judgement. the heat of your soft hands feels heavenly on his skin. you touching him, in such a small, nonchalant way, is causing a wave of comfort to wash over him for the first time today.

he needs this. like, really needs this.

“is this okay?” you ask, your voice pitching higher on the last syllable. you continue to stroke his skin from shoulder to wrist, feeling the goosebumps disappear and reappear as you go.

“yeah, it-it’s fine,” minho murmurs tersely. he lets his eyelids close with a flutter and gets drunk on the pleasant friction.

no one else in the glade would ever touch him like this. with his friends, a brief hug with a loud slap on the back is as far as their penchant for affection goes. in a society run almost entirely by teenage boys, physical contact is absolutely not the norm.

the feeling of your hands on his body seems to soothe an ache in minho’s chest that he didn’t know he was carrying until today. he had no idea how desperately he needed to be caressed gently until you were doing it. and now that you are, he’s already dreading the moment that you’ll eventually stop.

you take the cues presented to you by minho’s body language and stop all attempts at conversation. the moments pass in snug silence that’s punctuated only by the distant rumbling of other glader’s at work outside.

you roam the runner’s arms easily, stopping to lace your fingers in his several times, running circles over the top of his hands with your thumbs. a small smile plucks at his lips that you take note of, but dare not to acknowledge.

minho looks blissful in this instant. beads of sweat dot his skin and he spasms with discomfort periodically, but the look on his face is pure peace. this is exactly why you like being a medjack. boys need comforting just as much as anyone else but they’re often too proud or too poisonously masculine to accept it. it’s usually only here, in the medhut, hidden by a shut door and your firm orders to stay away, that they finally let themselves receive it.

as the minutes pass, you let your hands peruse other parts of his body. you run them down the sides of his torso, up the curves of his neck, and over the muscles in his thighs. you take great care to avoid his chest, hips and groin, not wanting to make him uneasy by inappropriately groping him.

minho is in heaven. he’s almost completely forgotten about his fever and all the pain and embarrassment it’s caused him today. he’s just touch-drunk on you, letting his mind lull itself into a daze, throwing all rational thought out the window. how did he not realize how badly he wanted this? how did it take him getting this excessively ill to get treated like this? is this even something he could ask you to do in any other context? hey can you just touch me? not even sexually just like, run your hands up and down my arms or something. please? i promise i won’t be a massive fucking creep about it.

he almost shudders in disgust at the thought and resigns himself to the realistic answer which is patently “no”.

minho chooses to believe he’s doing a phenomenal job hiding his obvious euphoria, but even he can’t convince himself he’s being casual when you move your hands to his face.

you slide them carefully up either side of his neck and cup his cheeks gently. four of your fingers rest easily behind each of his blush-inflamed ears while your thumbs rub his cheeks, back and forth, sending ripples of butterflies fluttering in his stomach. his heart is beating so fast he believes it might be at risk of stopping soon. through his haze of utter pleasure, he finally speaks.

“th-thank you. that feels r-really nice,” he stammers, too contact-high to care about the obvious stutters and dopey tone.

“you’re welcome minho,” you smile genuinely. the runner’s heart soars at your pronunciation of his name.

“and don’t worry,” you add tenderly, leaning in closer to whisper your next sentiment inches from his ears, “i won’t tell a soul about this,”

repost from my old blog strawberryglock, originally posted around march '25