#thomas maze runner

[extremebookreader]

“trios never work out-”

you’re right.

they don’t.

[urmom-richietozier1]

My dear friend suggested this audio

[suigenerisisadiva]

Stitches and Stares ⊹₊⟡⋆

Pairing: Minho x Fem!Med Jack!Reader

Summary: You’re the Glade’s med-jack—sharp, capable, and the only thing keeping half the boys from dying of stupidity. Minho, top Runner and top menace, has made a hobby of showing up at your hut with both real injuries and completely fake ones just to annoy you. But all jokes vanish when Minho is dragged into your tent bleeding and barely conscious after a brutal run.

CW: Slight angst, jokes, grievers, injuries

Word Count: 0.5k

The day starts normal. Which, in the Glade, means chaotic, sweaty, loud, slightly traumatic, and with Gally yelling at someone for breathing too loud.

You’re sorting herbs and leftover medical supplies in the hut when you hear it—

Yelling. Panicked. Running. Too many footsteps at once.

Your stomach drops.

Before you even make it to the door flap, it slams open.

Thomas is on one side, Alby on the other, both barely managing to carry the dead weight between them.

Minho.

He’s limp. Bloodied. Shirt torn. Head lolling.

Your heart stops.

“What happened?!” you shout, already pulling the table out, snapping into med-jack mode.

“Griever,” Thomas pants. “Caught him on the way back—he fought it off but—he’s—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.

You’re already moving.

“Put him here. Now.”

They lay Minho down. His skin is ashy, sweat dampening his hair. There’s a long, ugly gash across his side—deep enough to see the gleam of muscle.

You swallow hard. “Minho, hey. Stay with me. You hear me?”

His eyelids flutter. Barely. “Tough… day… sweetheart…”

Oh thank god—he’s conscious enough to flirt. Thomas chokes out a laugh, frantic and relieved.

You don’t even look up as you grab the needle. “Thomas, water. Alby, pressure on the wound.”

Your hands move with muscle memory, practiced precision—clean, stitch, tie, repeat. But your chest? Yeah, that’s pure chaos. Every time Minho winces, your heartbeat jumps. Every time he exhales sharply, something inside you twists. He’s always been reckless—cocky grin, fast feet, faster comebacks. But this? Seeing him like this?

It terrifies you.

“You’re doing great,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Minho huffs a weak laugh. “You… worried or something?”

You glare at him. “Shut up before I stitch your mouth closed.”

“That’d be… kinda hot…”

“MINHO.”

Alby snorts. Thomas actually wheezes.

You try, so hard, not to smile.

When the wound is finally closed and bandaged, you sit back, shaking with the leftover adrenaline.

“Why do you always end up on my table?” you whisper.

He shifts slightly, eyes barely open. “Maybe I like… seeing you…”

Your breath catches.

Thomas and Alby make identical faces, which you try to ignore and fail pathetically.

You brush hair off Minho’s forehead.

Just a little. Hoping no one notices.

“You scared me,” you admit, barely audible.

Minho’s lips twitch. “Yeah… you too.”

You exhale shakily. “I mean it.”

“I know.” His voice is soft. Too soft for Minho. “’S why I came back.”

Your chest squeezes.

You want to tell him everything—how you wait for him to return every night, how you pretend not to worry, how you replay every conversation you two have ever had—but he’s drifting, exhausted.

So you say the only thing that matters right now.

“Rest. I’ve got you.”

He murmurs something sleepy—sounds suspiciously like “always do”—but he’s out before you can tease him for it.

Later, when the boys leave, Newt stands behind you with his arms crossed, smirking like he knows every secret you’re desperately trying not to have.

“Med-jack, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“He nearly dies but still flirts with you—honestly, I respect the consistency.”

“Newt.”

“You like him. He likes you. The whole shucking Glade knows, Y/N”

You throw a rag at him. He dodges easily.

But as you turn back to Minho, watching his chest rise and fall, slow and safe, you allow yourself the smallest smile.

Just a little one.

Because maybe Newt’s right.

Maybe everyone knows.

Except the two of you.

For now.

Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources! -

Header - pinterest

Dividers - @hyuneskkami

Property of suigenerisisadiva, do not repost my work pls & ty!

[xnewtiebooty]

Newt is openly SO thirsty in this deleted scene jfc

He wants to climb him like a tree 💀

Also I cackled at him walking away with Thomas like "This is mine now 😊"

[seolado]

Just watched my nightly edits 🤍

[rehdhoodie]

ik my designs are inconsistent LALAA I CANT HEAR YOUU

[gardeniasinthetile]

okay call me crazy but i would’ve cared for thomas and teresa’s storyline more if they were siblings

[i-have-a-longbottom]

The Quiet Authority

Thomas x reader

⋆⭒˚.⋆Summary: You've been in the Glade longer, and take on the role of teaching Thomas how everything works. While ignoring the others Thomas only listens to you. Trusting your voice above everyone else’s.

⋆⭒˚.⋆Author's note: First Thomas story ;)

Thomas doesn’t listen to anyone.

Not Alby, even when his voice carries authority like it’s carved into the stone walls of the Glade. Not Newt, even when he tries to explain things calmly, like Thomas might break if spoken to too sharply. Not Minho, who mostly laughs and tells him he’ll figure it out the hard way.

Thomas listens to you.

You notice it the first morning after he arrives.

He’s standing near the Gardens, arms crossed, staring at the Runners like he’s already decided he’s one of them. You’ve been in the Glade for over a year, long enough to recognize that look immediately. The I don’t belong here but I’m not backing down look.

You walk up beside him and hand him a cup of water.

“Rule one,” you say casually, “don’t stare at Minho like that. He’ll make you run laps just to prove a point.”

Thomas blinks, then takes the water. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

Minho glances over, catches Thomas staring, and smirks like he absolutely would’ve done it.

Thomas looks back at you. “…Okay.”

Newt raises an eyebrow from a few feet away.

Later, you’re showing Thomas around the Glade properly, not the rushed, half-explained version everyone else gives. You point out the Slammers, the Med-jacks, the Builders. You explain what happens when the Doors close and why no one jokes about the Maze.

“Rule two,” you say, stopping near the edge of the stone walls. “You don’t go near this place unless you’re told. And even then, you don’t cross the line.”

Thomas steps closer anyway.

You grab his wrist without thinking. Not rough, just firm.

“I’m serious,” you say, quieter now. “People don’t come back.”

Something in your voice makes him stop. He looks at your hand on his wrist, then up at your face.

“…Alright,” he says. “I won’t.”

Alby, watching from a distance, mutters, “Unbelievable.”

Newt had tried explaining the rules three times already. Thomas ignored every word until you said the exact same thing.

Somehow, your voice cut through the noise of the Glade easier than anyone else’s.

By the third day, it’s obvious.

If Alby tells Thomas to rest, he shrugs it off. If Newt warns him not to push too hard, Thomas argues.

But when you tell him to slow down? He does.

When you say, “Don’t volunteer for things yet,” he hesitates. When you say, “Trust me on this,” he does.

You’re sitting with him one evening, watching the sun dip low and paint the stone walls gold. The Glade feels almost peaceful, almost normal.

“Why do you listen to me?” you ask suddenly.

Thomas frowns, like he hasn’t thought about it before. “You explain things,” he says. “Not like I’m stupid. Just… like I need to know.”

You smile a little. “That’s because you do.”

He looks at you for a second longer than necessary. “And you don’t look at me like I don’t belong here.”

You don’t answer, because the truth is, you’ve already decided he does.

And later that night, when shouting suddenly breaks across the Glade and runners scramble toward the Maze entrance, Thomas doesn’t move first or ask questions.

He looks for you.

And waits for you to tell him what to do.