until now, I was sure that it was common sense that you shouldn't glamorize rape. but the internet never ceases to disgust me.
One morning, a wukula x fem!omaticaya reader fic, written by 'm9yaa' came onto my fyp. I love the avatar franchise, so I naturally clicked on it to see what it was about, which was a mistake.
I didn’t thoroughly read through the tag list, which led me to preview a graphic rape scene 500 to 1k words into the story. By preview, I meant I only read a little before becoming so disgusted I genuinely just turned my phone off.
Here are some lines that appeared in that story:
"your body has already surrendered to him, even if your mind struggles to follow."
“i don't want this" — Y/N, who is referencing a sexual relationship with Wukula
"your mouth says no, but your body.. your body is shaking yawne." — Wukula, who is forcing himself onto her
"your body knows what it wants, even if you won't admit it." — Wukula, who is forcing himself onto her
This is rape.
These scenes are a textbook example of a rapist who wants to establish dominance and ownership over someone, so they take someone who has a clear disinterest in sexual intercourse and uses their normal physiological reactions to sexual stimulation to guilt them into ‘wanting sex’. Even though that person still doesn’t want to have sex, they are shamed and manipulated into believing that they secretly do because their body is reacting in a way that the rapist perceived as “consent”.
If this has ever happened to you, you should not be ashamed. Your body responded in the way it’s supposed to when it receives sexual stimulation, and you shouldn’t feel ashamed that it happened with someone you weren’t comfortable with. Rape doesn’t become consensual sex when the attacker makes you feel like you wanted it. You know you didn’t, and it’s not your fault that it happened. Victims should never be put at fault for the actions of their rapists. And they should never feel like it’s their responsibility to deal with their trauma on their own, or that their trauma is a result of their “weakness”. No victim of assault is weak. You are strong, and your attacker does not hold any power over you. If anyone reading needs help, my DMs are open, and I would be glad to post any hotline numbers or links to support systems.
Now, acknowledging this, I need to state that I do not have a problem with people who write for the Mangkwan tribe. James Cameron, the creator of the Avatar franchise, put great care into creating the Mangkwans. He worked closely with his actors and crew into learning about various indigenous and African cultures where practices like scarification are deeply honored. I admire the work put into the tribe, of which I find beautiful. They are incredibly different from typical Na’vi tribes like the Omatikaya or the Metakayina, and I am incredibly impressed by their culture. This does not mean I glorify torture, murder, cults, pillaging or scarification.
Personally, I believe cultural traditions surrounding self harm or abuse are too commonly practiced, and they must be stopped. James Cameron shows the importance of these rituals to the people who practice it by educating others on why they do it, but takes care on not glorifying it by showcasing the harm it does. He has amazing directive abilities, which is why I don’t mind the love people have for the Mangkwan tribe. The tribe had beautiful visuals, a good storyline, and gives attention to various indigenous cultures.
I understand why people like the Mangkwan tribe, and I understand why people wouldn’t. Trust me, I’m completely fine with people writing Mangkwan fanfics. However, I am not fine with people glamorizing rape. You cannot write something like this and think it's acceptable. A 15 thousand word story where someone is being brutally raped is not enjoyable, and it should not be given praise.
I got blocked after commenting "i'm confused... isn't this straight up rape? why are we glamorizing this?", which confused me.
Why is it so acceptable to glamorize rape? Why do authors glamorize rape? Why do so many people write about it as if it's an enjoyable experiences? How do people read it so happily, or get wet off of it?
It is just a random fanfic on the internet, but it presents a much deeper problem within common society. The decision to write, review, and post it was weird, and i needed to point it out myself since the comments on her page seemed to be eating it up.
By putting that kind of work onto the internet, you’re setting the standard that doing the act of or enjoying rape is okay, which it isn’t. When the author blocked me, they essentially admitted that they were glamorizing rape, and clearly didn’t understand why it is wrong to do so.
Unfortunately, they’re not the only author who does this. So i’m not trying to cyberbully or place all the blame on m9yaa, even if my post results in that. I’m just saying the fic was horrifying and works like that need to be taken down.
Rape is NOT a “nuanced” topic. It is a terrible thing and I have the highest sympathy and empathy for victims of assault. Don’t glamorize it on the internet, don’t glamorize it in real life, and don’t try to justify it. Rape culture is becoming too normalized and I’m SICK of it.
Any comment trying to convince me that rape is okay or that it has a place on the internet will be put on my wall of shame and effectively blocked.
wall of shame
notes for the images below:
the author blocked me way before this post was made, and since then I haven't directly contacted them, so according to the definition of bullying, I wouldn't be bullying "m9yaa".
none of my works are posted on my wattpad or tumblr yet. so have fun copying my bio, i worked super duper hard on it!
“canigotosleep—plz”, you need to learn some manners. you're 21 and you're using AI while on a platform that uplifts the hard work of authors and artists who put their soul into doing what they love. that's embarrassing, and you know it is.
doumacumslutttt, i hope someone beats your head in.
I never realized someone could be so apathetic until i had the absolute misfortune of having to talk to you.
You first claimed that "rape is not okay at all", but then you immediately contradicted yourself by claiming that you "enjoy it because (you) can". Why would you pretend to have some humanity when arguing with someone that can immediately realize when someone doesn't actually care about victims of assault or discussing the topic properly?
You don't care about rape in any form. When I asked you how you felt about a tragic case where a 12 year old girl was brutally raped by 3 teenage boys, and if you saw how horrifying it was, you simply responded with "okay what do you want ME to do about it."
Are you serious?
The purpose of that was to show you that rape isn't actually a fantasy, it's a nightmare for victims. By enjoying something that frequently oppresses women, you implicate that the victims experiences don't matter because "when it's in writing it's actually enjoyable".
Anybody that enjoys "dub-con" or "non-con" is a rapist in the making, and I stand ten toes down on that. Call "dub-con" and "non-con" what they actually are. Anything other than a sober, willing yes is a no. Stop turning the "rape" into cute little shortcut for despicable pieces of writing.
I don’t say this very often, but you should be shunned from society. You will never see the wrong of your ways, and you will continue to give rape-authors a platform by sharing their works.
Should I ever meet them in real life, I would high-five your best-friend for fucking your boyfriend, and then high-five your boyfriend for leaving you and your sick habits. They probably got sick of how you sit around all day reading graphic internet porn and justify sexual assault.
Hi :) i absolutely love love love your writing! Could you write a Newt x Fem!Reader having their first time, learning about what feels good for each other, and it's all gentle and sweet? And they have a little make out session in the showers afterwards? <3
"I like my body when it is with your body." — E.E. Cummings
NSFW Newt x Fem!Reader 𑣲 WC: 6,988
A/N: I am so sorry this ended up being so freaking long, and it took me forever to post. I sort of just took the idea and ran with it. I hope it fulfills the expectations you had for this request! I'll edit it someday, but for now, if you see any errors: No, you don't.
The vents are colder than you'd expected.
Metal hums under your palms as you crawl, powerless to silence each beat of your frantic heart. The facility runs on a strict lockdown at night: Doors sealed, guards patrolling on strict rotations, and no wandering. No 'unauthorized movement', whatever that's supposed to mean.
Naturally, you ignore all of that.
You inch through the narrow tunnel, the metal faintly rattling with each shift of your weight. Ahead, a thin rectangle of pale light spills through the grate. You press your fingers to the frame until it loosens with a soft 'pop', and you catch it before it can clatter on the ground.
"Psst." Your whisper slips into the dark. This dorm is larger than yours: Rows of narrow cots in perfect lines and silhouettes of sleeping boys under their blankets. There's slow breathing, the occasional groan, and the rustle of someone turning over. "Psst! Newt!"
For a moment, there's nothing except the hush of sleep.
Then: A groggy noise. One of the figures sits up, hair messy and shoulders tense like he's preparing to tackle an intruder.
"Hm?" He groggily hums, and relief pours into your chest.
"Newt!" You whisper a little louder, and his head snaps in your direction. He blinks hard, forcing focus into his slumber soaked eyes.
"Wha—?" His gaze lands on you, your ridiculous head poking out of the vent. "You have got to be kidding me." He whispers in disbelief.
"Miss me?"
"You're in the vents!"
"I wanted to talk to you."
"Talk to me? In the middle of the night? Through the bloody air vents?" He sounds half outraged, half impressed. He glances over his shoulder at the others, but none of them stir. "It couldn't wait 'til morning?"
"I didn't want to wait. Come with me."
"...You want me to crawl in there with you?"
"Yes."
"...In the vents?"
"Yes."
Newt goes utterly speechless, once again giving you that look. After all this time, he swears he knows you like the back of his hand, but you've managed to surprise him yet again.
"...You're bloody lucky I care about you, you twat." He drags a hand down his defeated face.
"So, that's a yes?"
"Fine." He huffs dramatically, muttering under his breath as he crouches down to meet you. "Move over." He climbs in with all the grace of someone forced into a terrible decision. "I hope you realize you're absolutely mad."
"Yes, and you love it."
"I love you. That's the problem." Your heart stutters, but before you can reply, he nods forward. "Go on then, you bloody nutcase. Wherever it is you're taking me, I'm right behind." You crawl ahead, guiding him through the tight passages until the vent widens. Another grate awaits at the end.
"There!" You motion.
The panel comes free with almost insulting ease. (Seriously. Whoever designed this place needs to be fired immediately). A cool wave of air sweeps over you as you peer inside.
It's some sort of unused observation room: Dark, empty, and abandoned. Rows of computers and medical equipment sleep beneath dusty plastic covers. A couch sits against the far wall. You slip out first; grate still tucked in your hand. Newt drops down beside you with a grunt.
"Brilliant." He mutters. "Absolutely marvelous. Sneaking into some unknown room through vents in the middle of the night. Why didn't I think of that?" Then he looks at you, really looks at you, and his foul expression melts away. It always does. "Worth it, I suppose."
"Told you."
"No. You told me nothing, except 'come with me'." He slumps heavily on the couch, stretching out his bad leg with a sigh. "Though, I reckon I'd follow you straight into a pack of Grievers if you asked."
"You sort of already have."
"Yeah. Suppose I have." He smiles and pats the cushion beside him. You sit, close, knee brushing his. Newt's hand finds yours, fingers lacing naturally. "So, I don't suppose you want to explain why you staged a midnight prison break?"
"I hate being in a different dorm."
"That's it?"
"I'm stuck on the other side of this building with a bunch of strangers. It's weird trying to fall asleep without the boys. Without you. I can't even pretend to sleep without your monstrous snoring."
"Absolute slander. I do not snore." He doesn't, but you enjoy the teasing. "Didn't think you missed me that much."
"Oh, please. It's just... I've slept in the same place as you and the others for years. I don't get why they insist on keeping us apart."
"S'cause you're a girl, in case you've forgotten."
"I haven't forgotten." You whine. "Come on, though. If anything weird was going to happen, it would've happened ages ago."
"Really?" His eyebrows shoot up, sounding somewhere between amused and insulted. "Is that what you think?"
"I- I meant—" You sputter. "I meant— Nothing bad— Like—"
"Relax." He laughs. "I'm only messing with you."
"Ha. Ha. Hilarious." You shove his shoulder, and he leans into you.
Silence settles between you: Comfortable and electric. His thumb traces slow circles over your knuckles, grounding you in the intimacy of his company. He shifts closer, thigh pressing against yours like it belongs there.
"Reckon we never really had time to figure it out." He murmurs. "Us, I mean."
"We were busy surviving." You respond softly. "Talking about... All this... Wasn't exactly high priority."
"Well, we've got time now. Don't we?"
"Yeah. Maybe we do."
"...I missed you too, by the way. More than I'd like to admit. Can't sleep without knowing you're nearby."
"Yeah? Why's that so hard to admit?"
"Because I'm the sensible, logical one between us." He scoffs. "I'm the one who's meant to stop you from doing stupidly reckless things like—" He gestures vaguely to the open vent. "Well, that."
"Mhm. Right. You're doing a terrible job, Mr. Sensible."
"Clearly." He rolls his eyes before they land back on you.
Newt's free hand lifts to your cheek, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don't. Instead, you dissolve into him. He's beautiful like this: Softened and vulnerable, his sharp edges melted into something warm.
"Is this the part where you kiss me?" You whisper.
"Bold." A shaky laugh escapes him. "Reckon it is, if you want it."
"I want it." You don't hesitate. "Do you?"
"Undoubtedly, yes." His words are so hushed, you barely hear them.
He regards you with a tender curiosity and a depth of respect that's always been unique to him. He admires your wit, your heart, your soul, your beauty, everything that is you.
Then, he closes the distance.
The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like he's memorizing the shape of you. The warmth of you. The miracle of not losing you in the Maze. The hand which cups your cheek softly strokes your face. The other squeezes your fingers. When you finally part, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling.
"Hey." You whisper, nose brushing his. "I'm starting to suspect we're more than friends."
"You think?" He grins, thumb sweeping along your bottom lip. "Hm, I might need a bit more convincing."
"Yeah?" You tug him toward you by the jaw and kiss him again: Deeper this time. It's hungry and breath stealing. A helpless sound leaves him as his hands slide to your waist, pulling you against him.
Fingers tangle in his hair.
Breaths mix.
Heat blooms across your cheeks.
When you finally break apart, he's flushed and panting, eyes half lidded as he stares at you devotedly. He laughs, and you laugh too, close enough to kiss again. He looks starving: A parched man in the desert, and you are his oasis.
"Convinced?" You taunt.
His fingers twitch against your waist, exhausting physical effort in holding himself back. His gaze flicks to your eyes, your lips, then your eyes again: Brimming with want.
"You're killin' me, Love," He mutters. "Lookin' at me like that."
"Like what?" The words prod with fraudulent innocence.
"You know damn well 'like what'. You with those big, pretty eyes— Batting your lashes at me and grinning like you're up to no good. D'you have any idea how maddening it is?"
"I might have a clue." You murmur, dragging your fingers along his jaw. He shivers, eyes fluttering shut, impossibly weak for your affection and undone by the mere brush of your hand.
Your fingertips trail the warm skin of his neck. A barely audible gasps escapes him. When his eyes open again, he watches with a dazed, adoring expression.
"You think you're real cute, don't you?" He rumbles, lovestruck and drowning in your presence.
"I think you think I'm cute." Your fingers slip under his chin, urging his face closer. He tilts into your hold without thinking.
"You've got so much power over me." He breathes. "D'you even realize it?"
You don't answer. You don't have to. It's written in the way he looks at you, in the way he follows you everywhere, no questions asked. His commitment is a natural law.
You lean in, pressing a peck to the corner of his mouth before bravely crawling into his lap. You straddle him easily, and he releases a surprised, helpless sound as your weight settles over him.
His hands grip your hips like an anchor, confirming reality. Your lips find his again: Deep and consuming. Your mouths fit like they were made for each other. He is your missing puzzle piece.
"You— " Newt pulls back for air, stunned. "You are absolutely lethal."
"Why, thank you." You whisper, locking lips again before he can recover.
A pleased hum erupts from his chest as he drags you into him, impossibly closer, strong arms winding around your waist until you're practically molded to him.
"Shite— " He curses, suddenly pulling away tightly shut eyes. Before you can express your concern, you realize the hardness poking on your thigh. His nails dig into your hips as he lifts you out of his lap, halting you over him. "S-Sorry." He barely stutters out. "Bloody hell—" Newt's face buries in your shoulder, the tip of his nose prodding the side of your neck.
"Hey," You breathe, lightheaded from the kiss. "Newt, it's okay— " Unfortunately, he doesn't hear you through the avalanche of mortified rambling spilling out of him.
"S'not something I can control— Just happens when... It's— " His voice is small, tight with shame. His whole body has gone stiff, bracing for you to pull away in disgust.
"Newt— "
"S'no disrespect— "
"Newt— "
"Just happens when I'm around you— "
"Newt— "
"Dunno know how to stop— "
"Newt!" Your voice sharpens. Not angry, but urgent to pull him out of this spiral. His head lifts a little, and he looks up at you with those pitiful eyes.
You take his hands, the ones gripping your waist, the ones desperately trying to hold you off him, and interlace your fingers. Then slowly, deliberately, you settle back down into his lap. The sound that erupts from his throat is guttural and astonished. His eyes fly wide and his thighs tense beneath you.
"You're not repulsed?"
"No." You squeeze his hands. "Newt, I like you just as much. You know that, right?"
"Y-Yeah?"
"Yeah." You persist, shifting your body. Your thighs rub against the stiff tent in his pants, and he jolts, grasping your hips to hold you still.
"Oh, Shuck— Careful with me, Love." The way he speaks is strained, intoxicatingly pathetic, like he's holding back a string of whimpers.
"...Hey, Newt?" You're not sure where the bright idea comes from. You're always overflowing with catastrophic ideas, but this one? This may just be your magnum opus of brilliant impulses.
"Yes?" His voice cracks.
"...Can I see it?"
He freezes, pupils blown wide and lips parting in disbelief. For a moment, he looks less like a boy and more like a machine someone's short circuited.
"See..." The word leaves him in a strangled, embarrassingly high pitch. "See what?" His face ignites: Scarlet across his cheeks, up the bridge of his nose, and all the way to the tips of his ears. "You mean my—?"
"Yeah."
"Good heavens." He shuts his eyes as if he may wake up from this. He doesn't. When he opens them again, you're still here and he's still hopelessly captivated. "You're serious? You absolute madwoman. You're actually serious?"
"Yeah." You nod, pretending your heartbeat isn't thrumming frighteningly loudly in your ears. "Dead serious. Griever-attack serious."
"You never do things in halves, do you? Just... Go straight for the kill." A beat of hesitation passes before he nods sharply. It's a decisive motion, like he's bracing for impact. "Alright."
"Really?" You perk, surprised by his quick agreement.
"Yeah." Newt's eyes bounce between your face and the way you're perched so comfortably in his lap. "Just... Promise me you won't laugh?"
"Cross my heart."
"Okay. Right then... Good." His whole body is coiled beneath you: Uncertain, eager, and trying so hard to be composed when he's anything but. Slowly, his hold loosens on your waist, and he brings his hands down to the button of his jeans.
"Good." You parrot.
He whispers 'okay, okay' under his breath, so quietly, you're not sure if he means it for you or for himself. It's as if he's steadying himself through the repetition, coaching himself past the unreal fact that you are here.
You ease back as he fumbles with the denim. His trembling fingers hook the waistband of his pants and tugs them down ever so slightly: Just enough for you to get a glimpse of that delicious v-line.
Part of you almost expects smooth, plastic bareness: Like a Ken doll. Sometimes, Newt doesn't even feel real. He moves through your life with uncanny intuition, always a step ahead of your thoughts, always knowing exactly what you need before you have time to name it.
"Still sure?" He asks quietly. "If this is some sort of twisted joke—"
"I'm not joking." You scoff, though you suppose he has some reason to doubt. You've definitely subjected Newt to more than his fair share of humiliating pranks. Oh, but not this. Never this. "I want to see. Please."
He shivers at the word 'please', like it's something physical, something that reaches right beneath his ribs and twists. He swallows hard, head tipping back and eyes fluttering shut. Your voice alone undoes him.
"Christ, you bloody menace." He mutters. "Look at what you've done to me. Just sittin' there, lookin' sweet as a peach and asking me to show you things like—"
"Newt." You lay your hand over his, thumb sweeping slow and soothing motions across the back of his knuckles. "Relax. It's just me, and you don't have to do anything you don't want to."
"I know." He shivers again under the weight of your tender touch. His eyes open slow, and the moment he sees that loving expression on your face, the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. "I know it's just you. That's the issue. It's you. It's always been you."
He doesn't need to elaborate: You feel the truth of it in your bones. From the moment you first locked eyes, something in you rewired itself. Nights were spent thinking of him, dreaming of him, desiring him. You've turned over every word, every smile, every interaction.
He is truly your best friend. Your fiercest constant. Wherever you move, he moves, not out of obligation, but devotion. If you should ever need a shield, he becomes one. If you need a sword, he offers himself without hesitation. If all you need is a shoulder to fall apart on, he will sit you through every tear.
He always has.
Finally, in one quaking breath, he frees himself. His hard length slaps up against his clothed stomach, and he lets out a pained hiss, eyes darting up to your face while he waits for disgust or pity.
"Woah." The word slips out, a reaction pity and disgust never coming. His size is impressive to say the least, precum oozing from his glorious, twitching tip.
"Happy now?" He rasps, fingers trembling at his sides before curling fists into the fabric of the couch. He's already wrecked just from being exposed under your gaze: Shaking, and so obviously hard that it hurts.
"Mm, can I try something?"
"Christ, you want more?" He shivers at your hungry stare, thighs flexing beneath you. There's a mixture of apprehension and curiosity on his face. "Hell, anything you want, Love. I'm all yours anyway."
He looks so incredibly vulnerable: Open in a way he never lets himself be with anyone else. Oh, God, he trusts you. He trusts you so much it presses against your heart. It's an aching, pulsing reminder of the responsibility you hold.
For a moment, you wonder how you'd ever became the keeper of such a faith. How could someone like him, so steady, so selfless, so endlessly brave, decide that you were safe enough to unravel for? Still, you don't pull back. You never will. You trust him too. His weakness comforts you almost as much as it terrifies you.
You hesitantly reach down, poking at the head of his leaky cock. His breathing hitches, and when you pull your finger back, it exposes a translucent string between your finger and his tip. His body jerks, a strangled sound escaping past his gritted teeth.
"Ah— Love—" He gasps, quaking. "God that's so— You can't just—" His eyes are trained on the glistening mess on your finger, mouth hanging open like he's never seen anything so sinful. You've left him speechless.
"Don't worry." You mutter. "I'm not done."
Your fingers carefully wrap around him, a painfully thin touch. After all, you're not really sure how much pressure to use. You've never done this before, and you wouldn't want to hurt him.
He chokes: A real, audible sound of desperation leaves his throat as your fingers adjust around him. His hips jerk up, and he forces them still with a pained groan.
"You don't have to be gentle." He speaks in one quick breath, hands clenching the couch fabric like he's physically holding himself back from grabbing at you. "I won't break."
With that, you wrap your whole hand around him. He's so hard, and warm, a surprising combination, all under your fingertips. He gasps, back arching, his body seeking friction to ease the growing ache. He's already a panting, trembling mess and you've barely even touched him.
You let out your nerves in one shaky exhale before jerkily stroking him up and down, testing the unfamiliar movements. He lets out an obscene growl before his hand suddenly comes up over yours. He guides your movements until they're smoother, gently correcting the angle of your hand.
"Like this?"
"Mhm— That's it—" He moans a low, throaty noise. He doesn't even sound like himself. His hips rock into your hand reflexively, unable to keep himself still. "J-Just like that."
"You're so pretty, Newt." You can't help the greedy praise as he twitches in your hand. The sight of his surrender dizzying. His mewls only fuel your confidence as you pick up your speed, spreading your thighs and slotting his knee between your legs in the process. He nearly sobs, hips jerk erratically, chasing your hand while his knee rises to press between your legs.
If you'd told yourself an hour ago that you'd be grinding against Newt's knee and jerking him off in some unfamiliar room, you wouldn't have believed it. He wouldn't have either. Yet here you were.
Your arousal pools through your clothes as you fall forward, pressing your lips harshly to his in a pleasure filled daze. He groans in your mouth, hands flying to your hips, holding you tightly as his knee presses up harder. The kiss is messy: All teeth, panting breaths, and stifled moans.
His hips lurch wildly, and he lets out a sharper sound against your lips, pulling back in one quick motion.
"Wait— Wait— Wait—" He groans, and you stop immediately, eyes scanning over him in worry. His nails dig into your skin as he flips you over, back pressed against the couch. "Shuck— Not yet. I just... I need to..." His chest heaves as he hovers over you, like he's just run through the entire Maze. "I want to see you too." His fingers skim the inside of your thigh. "Please."
You nod, a breath leaving your lips with both understanding and relief as you prop yourself up slightly, pulling your shirt over your head. There's no room for insecurity. Not with Newt. He washes fear out of you entirely.
He freezes the moment your shirt comes off, fabric hitting the ground with a soft thud. His eyes drag over every inch of exposed skin and his fingers drift near your waist, like they're afraid to touch you now that there's nothing between him and your warm skin.
"Hey," You whisper, finding the hem of his shirt and tugging it. "I'm not going to be the only shirtless one here, am I?" Your tone is playful enough to ease his nerves. He laughs, obediently reaching down and yanking his own shirt off, tossing it over yours to form a pile.
"Better?" He murmurs, lips curving into a lopsided smirk.
"Much." Your gaze traces the lines of his toned figure. He was a Track-Hoe once, and before that, a Runner. Of course, he knows how to use his beautiful body. Every motion he makes is practically designed to unravel you.
His hands advance experimentally over your stomach, causing a shiver. His expression shifts between smug pride and pure adoration. Strong palms map your body, memorizing every dip and swell beneath his fingertips. His thumbs toy with the edge of your bra. (He has no idea how to take it off).
"You're a vision, you know that?"
"Says you." You arch slightly, moving to unclasp your bra for him. It falls away, exposing your chest to the cool air and Newt's eager eyes.
"Shuck, look at you." He gasps, hand hesitating over you for a second before it slowly cups your breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive nipple in agonizing tenderness. He kneads it curiously, and your body tingles at the foreign feeling. Then, once, he pinches a little too hard.
"Newt!" You hiss.
"Sorry." He swallows, eyes flickering from your chest, to your eyes, then to your chest again. "...Let me kiss it better." He grins, slowly lowering down and pressing his lips on your sternum, peppering across your torso in soothing lines. "Should've known you'd be sensitive. M'sorry." He lavishes open mouthed kisses over where he'd pinched, hands rubbing soft circles in your thighs with his thumbs. Your head goes fuzzy as his tongue swirls around your nipple meticulously. "So sweet, Love."
His lips move to your other breast, leaving no part absent of saliva. It's like he's made it his personal mission to make you feel good, testing what sounds he can draw out from you.
"You're so cheesy." You stutter out, fingers tangling in his hair. His hips jerk forward at the contact, hard cock rubbing on the inside of your thigh.
"Can you blame me?" His mouth drags lower across the soft planes of your stomach, leaving behind a trail of wet kisses. His tongue darts out to savor the skin above the waistband of your pants. "Can I taste you?" He whispers, hands sliding up and down your legs.
"Are you sure?"
"Never been more sure of anything." He reassures. "Let me take care of you."
You nod, and he tugs the rest of your clothes down in one quick motion, fingers squeezing you in a way that betrays his gentlemanly self-control.
His eyes are dark at the sight of you, and he kisses the inside of your thigh, working agonizingly slow until he reaches your glistening folds. He nuzzles the sensitive skin, tongue prodding out tentatively.
"Don't tease." You groan.
"So ready for me, aren't you?" His tongue drags over you in a slow, delicate stroke, and he hums, relishing in the flavor. "You taste so good. So sweet." He mumbles, tongue diving into you again.
You let out a lewd sound, and he groans against you, the vibration sending electricity through your body. His grip tightens as he licks into you again: Slow and taunting, drowning in you.
His tongue swirls around your clit before sucking it lightly, and both of your hands tangle with his hair, tugging as he experiments with intensity. He growls in response, working quickly, alternating between long licks and sharp sucks that leave your legs trembling.
He's surprisingly talented for someone who's never done this before. You feel the rocking motion of his hips thrusting against the couch, desperate for friction.
His hand slides up to cup one of your breasts again, thumb brushing over the stiff bud as his mouth worships you with everything he has. His eyes flick up, watching you through his lashes.
Your legs wrap around his neck and he lets out a strangled sound, hips jerking hard against the couch as he pants against you. His grip on your waist must be bruising at this point, but compared to the way his tongue moves on you, you barely notice.
"Newt—" You choke out his name, but he doesn't hear at first, too immersed in his desire to please you. He looks like the mere act of satisfying you is enough to gratify him. "Newt!" You repeat, tugging his hair urgently a couple times to catch his attention.
He pulls back, lips glistening and swollen from your taste. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, pupils so wide you can barely see the color in his eyes anymore.
"Yeah?" His voice is wrecked. "You okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" His grip on your hips loosens slightly in concern.
"Come here." You command, propping yourself on your elbows. He obeys, crawling up the length of your body until he hovers over you again, eyes searching your face to gauge your reaction.
Your lips find his in an instant, and he kisses back hungrily, like you are his oxygen. He moans into your mouth, raw with impulse. It's messy, and you can taste your own arousal on his lips.
Your legs spread, locking around him, and his throbbing cock ruts against your slick cunt. A shudder runs through him, and he pulls back, reading you.
"You... Are you sure?" Newt's voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "We can stop here. You're not obligated—"
"Please don't stop." You interrupt immediately. "Please. I'm sure. I want you."
"Shite... Alright." He inhales sharply, forehead dropping against yours. "Alright." He shifts just enough to press the blunt head of his cock against you. "You're really sure?"
"Newt, I'm sure!"
"Alright!" He hesitates for a second before sinking in with the slow roll of his hips. There's a sharp sting as he pushes into you: Too big, too fast.
"Slower—" You grit, eyebrows furrowed as you try to catch up with the new sensation. He freezes, and his grip on your hip tightens, like he's straining under the pressure of not shoving in completely.
"Sorry." He breathes. "Too much? We can stop."
"No. No, don't stop. Just slow down, please."
"Okay." He nods obediently, taking a few deep breaths as he slows. "S'okay. Just breathe, Love." He murmurs, eyes squinted with unwavering focus. "J-Just try to relax for me, yeah?"
"Y-Yeah."
Slowly, but surely, he pushes onward. You watch closely as the entirely of his magnificent length disappears inside you. He pauses for a moment to enjoy the feeling: The tight heat sucking him in.
"You okay?"
"I'm okay." You nod. "Are you okay?"
"Am I okay?" He lets out a choked laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm bloody amazing. You feel just... Amazing." He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your jaw. You involuntarily pulse around him, and his hips jerk forward without warning. "Shuck— M'sorry—"
"No. It's okay." You let out a quivering exhale, the sting subsiding. "You can move."
"You sure?" He whispers raggedly, pressing another kiss to your forehead. It's a gesture so wholesome, it almost contradicts this whole situation. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"Okay." He barely manages to sputter out. "Okay. I'm... I'm gonna move. Okay?"
"Newt, just do it."
"Alright! Okay!" He nods rapidly, trying to ground himself through the nervousness and inexperience. "Please, just tell me if you need to stop or slow down." He pulls out almost completely before slowly— Oh, so slowly, pushing back in. His eyes flutter shut briefly and his breath hitches. "You— Oh God—" He swallows. "M'not hurting you, am I?"
"You're not." You groan. Although, his ceaseless concern is endearing. "I promise, you're not. If you are, I'll tell you. Okay? Now, please, shut up and keep going."
He nods, finally giving in to the primal need to move. His hips snap forward with a rough groan, burying himself inside you again. His hands slide up your body as he finds his pace: Still so slow and careful.
You can't help the lewd sounds that escape your lips with every thrust, and your hand finds his bicep, right beside your head, nails digging into his skin. Newt whines: An actual whine. His eyes roll back momentarily before locking on your face.
Oh, those pretty eyes.
Pornographic mewls and the sound of wet slapping skin fills the room. He groans out a string of shaky, unintelligible words, losing himself in you.
"Shit— Love, I can't last—" He pants, burying his face in your neck, pressing sloppy kisses on your skin: Nipping, biting, and leaving marks that'll have you blushing later. You reach down, rubbing circles over your clit before he swats your hand away, replacing it with his. "No, let me. Please, let me make you feel good." He begs.
You oblige, and he moans in relief as you let him take over. His thumb rubs slow, teasing rotations over your clit as he continues to thrust into you. His eyes are glazed with pleasure, determined to satiate you.
"Newt—" You whine, and he sobs, bringing his lips down against yours. He moans in your mouth, tongue sliding against yours longingly. He's trembling as his hips jerk forward, hard.
"P-Please, Love— So close—" He whimpers. "Please— Just—" A broken sound leaves him as he suddenly pulls out, coating your stomach in his release. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up to what's just happened. "Shuck— I'm— Sorry— I tried—" He grunts, panting and shaking uncontrollably.
"Don't apologize." You whisper, running a finger along your cum painted abdomen, gathering the liquid and wiping it on your tongue. The taste is interestingly clean and neutral: Very Newt. He shudders, eyes following as you sample his release, jaw hanging open in shock.
"Blimey— You ate it." He mumbles to himself before swallowing. "I didn't—" He begins, but then cuts himself off, taking a positively determined tone. "I'm not done with you yet."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He insists, hands sliding along your thighs to push them apart again. "You won't get off that easy." He chuckles, fingers finding you again without hesitation. His thumb rubs rapid circles on your clit as his head drops, kissing the sensitive spot below your ear. "So wet, sweet girl."
Two fingers prod into you with ease, and you gasp at the sensation, still craving your release.
"C-Curl your fingers a little." You stutter out, and he nods at the instruction, still scattering messy kisses against your neck and jaw. His long digits curl, and your legs begin to shake at the added pressure. "Like this?"
"Yes! Yes! Right there!" You gasp, and his breath hitches at the desperate tinge in your voice. His fingers move more confidently now: Curling just right every time he drags them back in.
"That's it. My pretty girl..." He purrs in your ear, and the praise goes straight to your core. His fingertips brush that perfect, spongey spot inside you, and you whine his name loudly. This only fuels his concentration. You pulse around his fingers, and he hums, licking your sweat-stained skin.
You find your release among a string of ragged gasps, and he watches in awe, thumb dragging it out until you're shuddering from oversensitivity.
"O-Okay!" You tap his shoulder repeatedly, the overstimulation becoming achy. "Okay! That's enough!" He pulls his hand back, licking his fingers clean and humming with delight.
"Sorry." He murmurs, pressing an apologetic kiss to your forehead. "Got carried away." A soft chuckle follows as he nuzzles into your neck, all affection now that the heat of the moment has fizzled. His arms shift beneath you, scooping you into an embrace. "You okay? Was it too much?"
"I'm okay. Just a bit of a mess." You whisper, acknowledging the fact that his cum was still splattered all over your stomach. "Are you okay?"
"Understatement of the year." He snorts, pulling back to examine you. "You look good like this. All messed up for me."
"Messed up, huh?" You huff, rolling your eyes. "I'll try to take that as a compliment." You attempt to sit up, muscles still aching from what had just transpired. His hand immediately slips to the small of your back, guiding you with an instinctive steadiness.
"Slow and steady, you messy masterpiece."
"Mm. 'Messy masterpiece' that needs a shower."
"Hold still." He grabs his discarded shirt from the ground, wiping your stomach in slow, careful motions. Any trace of embarrassment has long vanished from him. If anything, he looks annoyingly proud. "Let me help you."
Piece by piece, he eases you back into your clothes, reassembling you with precision. He presses a soft kiss to your bare shoulder before sliding your shirt back in place, fingertips brushing your ribcage.
"Feel like sneaking around with me again?" You already know the answer.
"To where?" He sighs, resigned.
"Showers?"
"...Okay."
Crawling back through the vents feels impossibly harder now. Even the Maze was easier than this tight, metal hell. Newt leads, muttering curses every time he bumps his knee.
Strangely, it's comforting to be led by him. You're not usually the 'follower' type, but with Newt, you don't mind. Your thoughts drifts back to the Glade: How easy it was to obey him, and how naturally he stepped into the role of being your compass.
You're lost in memory when the sharp clang of metal snaps you back. You're still in the vents, messily dressed and covered in sweat, searching for whichever room houses the showers.
"Are we lost?" You tease.
"We are absolutely not lost."
"You certain? Cause I'm pretty sure we just took 3 left turns."
"We are probably not lost."
"Great. Brilliant leadership."
"Keep talking, Love." He glances over his shoulder at you, unamused. "I'll leave you up here."
"You wouldn't."
"No, but I'd think about it."
"Oh, how evil."
Finally, a large metal grate below you opens up into the warm, echoing tile of the showers. Newt leans forward, measuring the distance, then, he drops. He hits the tiled floor with a muted thud, knees bending, and one hand touching the ground to steady himself before he straightens.
"Alright." He looks up at you, opening his arms and bracing his stance. "Jump."
"What? No!"
"I doubt your legs could handle the landing after everything we just did." He states so matter-of-factly, you could choke on the sheer simplicity of it.
"I'm fine!" Your face burns.
"Uh huh. Just jump."
"Newt, what about your leg? I'm not making you catch me."
"Oh, please." He scoffs. "I've carried sacks of potatoes heavier than you."
"How romantic."
"Ain't I just?" His arms stay open: Steady, patient, and infuriatingly certain.
"...Don't drop me."
"I won't."
"You'd better not." You take a breath, let it out slowly, then push off.
He catches you cleanly, like the idea of dropping you doesn't exist in any universe he inhibits. His arms slide under your back and knees with practiced ease. The impact barely nudges him, though his fingers tighten around you like instinct.
"Told you." His voice is low near your ear. "I've got you." He sets you gently on your feet, his hands lingering at your waist a moment longer than necessary. "You still alright?"
"Yeah." You nod, breath evening. "Just need to get clean."
"Right." He hums, dragging his gaze away from you to the line of showers, as if only just remembering the point of sneaking down here in the first place. "Clean. Right."
"Turn around."
"Turn around?" His head whips back to you at comical speeds. "Seriously? I've just seen every inch of you, and you still want me to turn around?"
"Yes." You deadpan, leaving no room for negotiation. He blinks once. Twice. It's a long, stunned moment where you can hear the gears turning in his head. Then finally, he exhales, the most dramatic, theatrical sigh known to man. He pivots away from you fully, both hands flying up to cover his eyes like a child playing hide-and-seek. "You're ridiculous." You mutter, stripping out of your clothes.
"You're ridiculous."
The water hisses to life, a sharp rush that quickly softens into steady warmth. The first touch of heat pulls a sigh out of you, muscles loosening and the ache in your trembling subsiding. For a moment, there's only the sound of water and the slow unwind of your own exhaustion. Then, there's a shuffle behind you. It's enough to snag your attention and bring your eyes gazing over your shoulder.
Newt is still there. Still facing away. Still standing exactly where you'd left him. His posture is absurdly stiff. He hasn't budged an inch. He's just waiting, for you, like the world would end if he broke whatever invisible rule he's decided to follow.
You almost feel guilty, but there's a thrill in it too: The thrill of a man who listens without hesitation. A man who follows your word without the need to understand it. A man who obeys, no matter how nonsensical the request may be.
"Newt, really?" You laugh, unable to help yourself. His fingers part just enough for him to squint through them, as if to check whether you're laughing at him or with him. You list your hand and curl 2 fingers, beckoning him forward. Oh, you can't resist him. "Come on."
The effect is immediate. A wide, boyish grin blooms across his face. He strips in hurried, clumsy motions, nearly tangling himself in his own trousers before stumbling into the steam with you.
Water droplets glitter along his eyelashes and his hair is plastered to his forehead in uneven strands. He looks good like this. Then again, he looks good all the time.
He lathers soap between his palms and works it into your hair, gentle fingers massaging your scalp. When he cradles your head beneath the showerhead again, he studies your face with earnest reverence.
What an unspoken blessing it is to be loved by a gentle man.
You pull him close, sliding your arms around his neck, drawing him into the warmth of you. His hands settle on your waist, squeezing, before he leans in. His mouth meets yours with such tenderness. There's no need for words in the small space between your lips. Everything you have yet to say is already known.
You love him.
He loves you.
It's a simple truth.
You only part when the water begins to cool, a faint shiver reminding you of the world outside yourselves. He rests his forehead against yours, clinging to the intimacy of this moment.
"We should probably get back before anyone notices we've gone." He whispers, though his hands remain exactly where they are.
"Probably." You agree, but neither of you moves. The world could collapse around you both, and you doubt either of you would notice for several long seconds.
Eventually, reluctantly, he forces himself to step back, hands trailing along your skin in a slow farewell as he helps you redress. There's not a single inch of you he hasn't seen, touched, or tasted tonight, and somehow that only makes the moment gentler.
He smooths the fabric of your shirt over your shoulders, giving your sleeve a soft tug, making sure you're put together before he even thinks about dressing himself.
When you're both decent, he crouches beneath the open vent, with linked fingers, creating a foothold to boost you up.
"Alright. Up you go."
You step into his waiting hands, and he lifts with a quiet grunt, guiding your balance as you pull yourself back into the narrow tunnel. The air is colder here.
You glance down, and he's looking at you. Of course he's looking at you. How could he ever pull his eyes away? His expression speaks volumes: He's never seen anything quite so sincere as you.
"Need help?" You offer.
"Nah." He shakes his head with that easy, lopsided smile. :You go on and get your rest, Love. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." You echo.
"And the next day," His smile widens. "And the next, and the next after that too. You can count on it."
His certainty settles in your soul.
You slip back into the darkness as quietly as you'd came, but this time, the night is different. This time, you carry the warmth of his hands, the taste of his kiss, and the memory of that devoted expression. You carry his phenomenal heart, and he carries yours.
You'll continue to carry his love with you: Tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that. You'll carry it in your heart as long as life allows. A love like this never fades away.
part 1
⤷ pairing: minho x fem!reader
⤷ word count: 7.4k (somehow got more carried away on this one)
⤷ summary: it would be just your luck that wckd sticks you in the same room as minho when you're both captured after the ambush in the scorch. though after so many weeks of wckd breaking you down, it dawns on both of you that you only have each other to lean on.
⤷ warnings: your typical death cure violence (needles, sedation, trauma, reader and minho basically being tortured, etc), still lots of bickering that eventually fizzles out, reader and minho figuring out their relationship and disliking each other a lot less, some angsty moments mainly cuz reader is losing it, also some fluff sprinkled here and there, no use of y/n
a/n: for the 3 people that requested a part 2 here it is :p i love writing for minho sm
Chaos.
That was the only word to describe what’s going on around you.
One moment, you’re sitting and laughing with Harriet, Sonya, and Aris. Carefree. Happy.
The next, WCKD has you in their clutches once again.
Your knees slam into the dirt beside Minho.
Down the line, you see Newt, Frypan, Aris, Harriet and Sonya, who is being shoved to the ground at the same time as you.
She struggles as the WCKD soldier shoves her head forward, and that’s when you notice the scanning device in his hand. It chirps as it reads the chip in the back of her neck.
“B4.”
They’re inventorying you like you’re equipment.
Minho’s head is shoved forward next. He jerks instinctively but doesn’t fight it.
“A7.”
The soldier releases him and steps toward you. You tense, every muscle in your body coiling. He grabs the back of your collar, shoving your head down to expose the chip at the base of your neck. The scanner hums, and you see red.
“B7.”
Before you can stop yourself, you twist violently and spit straight at him. It hits the soldier's visor.
For a split second, everything freezes.
Then you’re shoved, hard. You lose your balance and slam sideways into the dirt, shoulder aching from the impact.
There’s only silence around you, no one daring to speak up in fear of what might happen to them. Minho’s jaw clenches so hard he fears he might break teeth, though.
The soldier wipes his visor clean with the back of his glove, then hauls you upright again. Your shoulder throbs as you’re yanked back into position.
“Try some shit like that again and see where it gets you,” the soldier's muffled voice seethes, moving on to the next kid.
You sit there breathing hard, dirt sticking to your clothing.
After a moment, Minho shifts slightly beside you. “You’re an idiot,” he hisses.
You just shrug like it was nothing. “Worth it.”
When Thomas reappears, hell breaks loose again.
It seems like there might be a chance when Jorge and Brenda show up. But not for you. Or Aris, or Sonya.
In the midst of chaos, you can see Harriet running back towards the truck. Relief floods through you, knowing she isn’t in WCKD’s hands.
A surge of adrenaline and anger floods through you, and you throw your elbow back in an attempt to escape the grasp of the soldier who has you captive. It lands, and you twist in an attempt to break his grip. It almost works, but you’re shoved forward and both of your arms are locked behind your back.
“Move,” the soldier growls, the ramp of the berg looming closer.
Aris and Sonya are shoved into the berg at the same time as you. There’s no point in fighting it anymore.
From your spot in the aircraft, your eyes catch sight of the Gladers running across the dirt. Minho is covering them, shotgun blasting soldiers left and right.
Until his gun jams, and a launcher hits him square in the chest.
You can only watch as he drops to his knees, slumping over a barrel as shockwaves tear through him for the second time that night. Thomas is yelling in the background, trying to move towards him, but his efforts are futile.
WCKD soldiers surround Minho, grabbing him under the arms and dragging him backwards. He’s motionless, helpless as they haul him toward the berg ramp.
A heaviness weighs on your chest as he’s brought into the cramped space, black uniforms holding him upright as he doesn’t have the strength to do it himself. Your eyes flicker over to the people still left outside, and you can see the Gladers in the distance. Thomas’s chest rises and falls quickly, mouth parted slightly in disbelief as the ramp doors begin to close.
And as the doors finally seal, it feels like your fate does too.
The door slams shut with a metallic clang that echoes off of the concrete walls.
You stagger forward as the guards shove you inside the room, barely catching yourself before you can hit the floor.
Behind you, another body stumbles in. Then the door seals.
Silence.
You take a quick glance around the room. It’s small—bare concrete walls, a single harsh light overhead, and two small bunks bolted into opposite sides of the wall. A camera blinks red in the upper corner.
Great.
You turn. And freeze.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Across the room, rubbing his shoulder where a guard had shoved him, is Minho. He looks just as unimpressed.
“Fantastic,” he mutters. “Out of every shank they could’ve picked, it had to be you.”
You scoff. “Feelings mutual.”
“Could’ve been anyone. Literally anyone else.”
“Yeah, because you’re such a joy to be around.”
“At least I don’t pretend I am,” he mutters.
For a moment you just stare at each other. He’s angry, that much is obvious, but the fact that he’s directing it onto you is pissing you off. Even now, bruised, dirty, and trapped in some WCKD facility, the feeling of blinding irritation is no different than when you’d first met in the Scorch.
Minho breaks the staring contest first, walking towards the bunks and inspecting them.
“Well,” he says. “Looks like we’re roommates.”
You cross your arms. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
“Oh please.” He points at one of the bunks on the side of the wall that isn’t in direct view when the door opens. “That one’s mine.”
You blink. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“That one’s better.”
“Exactly.”
Out of spite, you march over and shove past him, plopping onto the bunk before he can react.
“Too slow.”
Minho stares at you like you just killed his friends in front of him. “You did not just—“
“I did.”
He lets out an incredulous laugh. “Unbelievable. They stick me in a prison cell and I still have to deal with Group B’s most irritating runner. I don’t know which is worse, honestly.”
“Oh, you mean the one who finished her maze faster than yours?” you shoot back.
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t get too cocky now.”
“Oh, I will.”
The tension in the room crackles. For a second it almost feels like you’re in the desert again. Arguing over directions, trading insults while the others groan behind you.
But now, you realize, there’s no one to stop you.
Minho starts pacing the room. He tests the walls, the bunks, the door. It’s solid, no handle on the inside, no weak points.
He glances at the camera. “They’re watching.”
You follow his gaze. “Well,” you snort, “hope they’re enjoying the show.”
He leans back against the wall. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to show them I’m the strongest.”
“Please,” you say as you roll your eyes. “Didn’t I have to save you from eating sand a few days ago?”
“As I said before, I had it handled,” he says matter-of-factly.
You huff a laugh despite yourself.
Then the silence creeps back in. It’s deafening, the only audible noise being the low hum of the ventilation system. Neither of you acknowledge how tired you are. Or how scared or alone you feel.
Instead, Minho jerks his chin toward the bunk you’d stolen. “You’re really taking that one?”
“Yep.”
“Fine,” he huffs, dropping down on the other bunk with a metallic creak.
You sit in silence for a long time, until the sound of the electronic lock on the door buzzes. Both of you sit up instantly, your pulse quickening.
The door swings open, revealing two WCKD guards donned in black uniforms. They step into the room, and Minho gets to his feet immediately.
“What do you want?”
Neither guard answers. Instead, one of them points directly at you.
“You. Up.”
Your stomach plummets. Slowly, you force yourself to stand.
Minho looks between the guards, then at you. “Where are you taking her?” No response, as expected.
“Relax,” you mutter. “Maybe they’re taking me somewhere nicer.”
“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That’s definitely it.”
One of the guards grabs your arm. Instinctively, you jerk back. Immediately, the grip on your arm tightens and you grit your teeth.
“Hey—“ Minho goes to interrupt, but the second guard lifts a stun baton ever so slightly. He freezes. You meet his eyes for a brief second, giving him a warning look.
“Don’t start something,” you say quietly. The guard shoves you towards the door. You twist back just long enough to throw one last jab. “Try not to miss me too much.”
Minho folds his arms over his chest. “Trust me. I’ll enjoy the quiet.” His jaw tightens ever so slightly, though, as the door shuts behind you.
The cell door opens again about an hour or two later. Or maybe longer, but it’s hard to keep track with no way of knowing the time.
Minho is on his feet instantly.
You stumble inside as rough hands shove you forward. The door carelessly slams shut again, and you grumble to yourself quietly as you straighten.
Minho takes in your appearance, noticing you no longer wear the clothes you came in with. Instead of your jacket and pants that were dirtied by the harshness of the Scorch, you now wear all blue–a dark navy blue t-shirt and lighter pants. Most notably, your shirt has the words ‘PROPERTY OF WCKD’ printed across the back in small but bold letters. On the front, it’s printed in smaller letters on the left chest, along with your number. ‘B-07’.
Minho frowns. “What’d they do to you?”
You shake your head, sitting down heavily on your bunk. Minho also notices the piece of gauze taped to the inside of your arm.
“Decontamination. Made me change into this garbage. Took blood, vitals, gave me some sort of injection like they did when we got to the compound in the Scorch. Basic stuff,” you pause. “For now.”
He nods, exhaling slowly.
And not long after that, they come for him next.
He returns in similar shape to you. He wears the same outfit, though he has ‘A-07’ printed at the top of his.
You watch from your bunk as he tugs at the fabric of his shirt, expression morphing into one of disgust.
“Branding us as shuck property,” he mutters distastefully.
“Get used to it,” you reply, sighing heavily. “That’s what we are now.”
The rest of the evening, neither of you says much more. You're too tired to care.
The second day, you start arguing again.
By the fifth, it’s constant. The joys of being trapped together with nowhere to go, you suppose.
“You’re pacing again.”
You sit on your bunk, arms folded, watching Minho wear a path into the floor.
“Thanks, captain obvious,” he snaps, continuing his pacing. “Not like there’s much else to do in here. I’m thinking, anyway.”
“You’re sulking,” you correct.
Minho stops mid-step and glares at you. “I don’t sulk.”
“You absolutely do. You’re doing it right now.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
He scoffs and resumes pacing. “You’re the one sitting here acting like it’s the end of the world.”
You stare at him incredulously. “...Um, we’re prisoners in a WCKD facility,” you say slowly. “How exactly is that not the end of the world?”
“Because they’ll come,” he says immediately.
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Are you joking? You mean Thomas? Newt, Frypan?”
Minho’s jaw tightens out of irritation. “Yes. Them.”
“Minho,” you say flatly, voice void of any emotion. “They have no idea where we are, and do you really think WCKD is going to keep us in one place for too long?”
“They’ll figure it out.”
“And how long is that supposed to take?” you snap. “A week? A month? A year?”
Minho finally stops pacing, staring straight through you. “At least I haven’t given up.”
That hits a nerve. You push yourself to your feet, standing quickly. “I haven’t given up.”
“Really? Sure sounds like it.”
“My apologies for being realistic.”
“Listen, I get feeling hopeless, but don’t drag me down with you,” he hisses.
“You’re being delusional!” you fire back, hands running through your hair.
The room falls silent except for the sound of the two of you breathing heavily. For a moment, it really does feel exactly as it did when you first met him. Except this time, there’s nowhere to walk away. No one to stop you.
Minho’s glare doesn’t falter, but he looks away first. “Whatever. Talking to you is exhausting.”
You sit back down hard on the bunk. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Whatever. You’re impossible.” You turn on your side to face the wall, shutting him out completely.
Even when you close your eyes, the bright fluorescent lighting doesn’t disappear. The shirt you wear on your back feels like it’s suffocating you, the words printed on it making something in your stomach churn.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. You quickly learn that it never will.
After so many days, long after you’ve lost count, the tests start to blend together. Some are worse than others.
You’ve already been moved to another facility with all of the other kids, though you knew WCKD wouldn’t be dumb enough to keep you in one place for too long.
Dark circles have started to form under your eyes. Your hair thins, energy diminishing—so much so that you almost don’t have the energy to argue with your roommate anymore. Key word almost.
Now you’re the one that’s been pacing. It’s hard not to, when you have so much pent up energy and anxiety with no way to release it like you did in the Maze.
“Weren’t you just yelling at me a few days ago about pacing?” Minho’s voice cuts into your thoughts.
You don’t stop. “And?”
“It’s annoying.”
“Then don’t watch me.”
“Hard not to when that’s literally the only thing I can see. The room isn’t very big, if you haven’t noticed.”
You roll your eyes so hard you think they might get stuck, but don’t respond.
He pipes up again anyway, in that annoying way of his. “Maybe you should try sitting down. You’re gonna wear yourself out for no reason.”
“Don’t,” you say sharply.
“Don’t what?”
“Act like you’ve got everything under control. Because I know you don’t.”
“I don’t,” he replies. “But I’m not losing it either.”
“I’m not losing it.”
“You’re pretty damn close.”
You stop dead in your tracks, turning slowly. “You don’t know that.”
“It’s obvious.”
“You don’t. You don’t know anything about me,” you hiss, anger bubbling under the surface.
“I know enough,” he says, standing now too. “You were a Keeper, no? You’re the same as me. Same job, same pressure–”
“Then stop acting like I can’t handle it,” you cut him off.
“Then handle it.”
“I am.”
“No,” he says sharply, “you’re trying to control something you can’t.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. “And what are you doing?” Your voice drops. He doesn’t answer immediately, causing you to laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
“At least I’m not acting like our lives are already over.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to say it out loud, shank. It’s obvious enough.”
You shake your head, turning away, dragging a hand through your hair in frustration. “Okay, whatever Minho. I’m done. Don’t talk to me, I’m sick of hearing your voice.”
“Gladly.”
True to his word, he doesn’t speak for the rest of the night into the next day. The room is plunged into a long, uncomfortable silence, but you’re not about to break it due to your pride.
You’re lounging on your bunk, staring at nothing in particular when you hear the buzz of the lock and the door swinging open. You don’t even lift your head.
“B7. Let’s go.”
You sigh dramatically as you sit up, swinging your legs over the hard mattress. Minho catches your eye for a quick second, but says nothing.
The guards lead you out, toward whatever your next test will be.
The lab you’re led into smells like antiseptic and chemicals.
Before you can even attempt to protest, you’re forced down onto a cold metal table. You yell out in protest, struggling as your limbs are held down and restrained. With your wrists and ankles bound, you’re powerless. Your expression hardens, glaring at the technicians around you.
“You people ever hear of consent?” you mutter, knowing that your consent means nothing in this place. As you expected, no one answers.
A needle slides into the vein in your arm, causing you to flinch. A second one is slid into your other arm, attached to a tube that disappears into a humming machine. You can only imagine what it’ll be used for.
A screen lights up with rows of numbers. One of the doctors in a white coat glances at it, then nods towards another one. “Begin cycle.”
You barely have time to process the words before a mask is placed over your face. No matter how hard you try to fight it, it only takes seconds before your vision goes dark.
Then, suddenly, you jolt awake. It felt like you had only been out for mere seconds, but you know it’s been longer than that. Your head pounds. The room spins slightly as your eyes crack open, the machines beside you beeping steadily.
Your arms are still strapped down.
Two doctors stand nearby, arguing quietly over a tablet.
“...response levels are good. We can move her into phase two, if this continues to go well.”
You blink slowly, forcing your mind to focus. Tools sit on a sterilized tray on the table next to you. Scalpels. Needles. Other devices that you don’t recognize. Something sharp twists in your chest, something like panic.
You test the restraints on your wrists, hoping something will give. And then you feel it–one of them is loose.
“Hey,” one of the doctors snaps. “She’s awake.”
The other immediately reaches for a syringe.
“Sedate her again.”
The doctor steps closer, and that same panic rears its head again. You rip your hand free from the loose restraint and swing.
Your fist connects hard with his jaw. He stumbles back, crashing into a table of tools. Metal clatters everywhere, loud clangs echoing through the room.
“Restrain her!” someone shouts. You try to sit up, ripping the IV from your arm as you struggle. A guard grabs your shoulder, and you lash out again out of pure desperation, catching him across the face.
For a brief, glorious moment, chaos erupts in the room. Then, a fist slams into your mouth.
Pain explodes through your jaw as your head snaps sideways. Your vision bursts into white. Rough hands shove you back onto the table, forcing you down. A syringe plunges into your neck. Cold instantly spreads through your body.
The last thing your consciousness holds onto is the feeling of warm blood dripping down your chin.
You don’t remember them bringing you back.
Minho does.
The door bursts open, much later than usual. Two guards drag your unconscious body inside and drop you carelessly onto your bunk. You don’t even stir as you hit the mattress, body completely limp.
Minho is on his feet instantly.
“What the hell happened to her?” he snarls. He doesn’t really expect an answer, and he doesn’t get one. The guards leave as quickly as they arrived.
The door slams shut. Minho kneels beside the bunk, eyes scanning over your face. Your lip is split open, dried blood smeared down your chin. An ugly bruise is already blooming along your jaw.
His stomach twists.
“Hey,” he says urgently, shaking your shoulder. “Hey.”
You don’t wake up. His hands curl into fists, fury burning hot and sharp in his chest.
For the rest of the night, he doesn’t sleep. He watches the rise and fall of your chest, just to make sure you’re still breathing.
You stir sometime later.
At first it’s barely noticeable. Your fingers twitch slightly against the mattress, but it catches Minho’s eye immediately. He’s on his feet again in an instant.
“Hey,” he says quietly, crouching down beside your bunk again.
Your eyes flutter open. For a moment you just stare at the bottom of the bunk above you, blinking slowly like you’re trying to remember where you are. Then the pain catches up to you. You inhale sharply, one hand flying up towards your mouth.
“Careful,” Minho says, grabbing your wrist gently before you press too hard against your split lip or swelling jaw. Then he realizes what he’s doing and pulls his hand away like your skin burns him.
You squint at him, still trying to make sense of what was going on. “…Why does my face feel like I got hit by a truck?”
Minho exhales a humorless laugh. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”
You slowly sit up, wincing as your head throbs. “What happened?” you mumble.
Minho studies you for a second. “You don’t remember?”
You shake your head slightly and immediately regret it. “Not really, no.”
He leans back on his heels. “They brought you back out cold,” he says quietly. “Your lip is busted. And you have a real nice bruise on your jaw.”
“Oh.” Your eyebrows furrow as the memory flickers back in pieces. Then it hits you. “Oh. Shit.”
Minho raises a brow, silently urging you to continue.
“I may or may not have punched a doctor.”
“You what?”
You rub your face, careful to avoid your jaw. “I woke up and panicked and one of the restraints was loose so I swung,” you say quickly.
Minho pauses, then lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “You punched a WCKD doctor.”
“Well technically two people if you also consider the guard that I swung at.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” you mutter. “Might as well not make it easy for them, right?”
“Don’t make it easy, but don’t be a dumb shank. That’s how you get hurt, like you are right now,” he says sharply. “Do you want them to make it worse for you?”
You frown, ignoring his question. Then you take a better look at him, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the tired look on his face.
“You didn’t sleep.”
Minho shrugs. “I was busy.”
“Doing what?” You raise a brow.
He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Making sure my shuck roommate wasn’t dead.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly, and you look away quickly.
“…I was fine.”
“Right,” he huffs. “Well I had to be sure. Would probably die of boredom if I didn’t have someone to argue with all the time.”
You can only roll your eyes in response.
Over time, the hostility between the two of you lessens more and more. When it becomes clear that no one is coming for you, at least not any time soon, you only have each other to lean on.
It starts as small gestures. Helping each other sit after a particularly hard day, subconsciously looking for injuries on the other. Reminiscing about your friends together, wondering if they’re okay. Sitting beside each other on the floor, backs against the bunk, shoulders brushing slightly. Light touches that ground you.
Your arguments turn into something sillier, something lighter.
“You snore, by the way.”
Your eyes snap open. “I do not.”
Minho doesn’t even look at you. Just stares at the ceiling like he’s been waiting for this moment. “You do.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You absolutely do.”
You push yourself up onto your elbows. “I would know if I snored.”
“Right,” he says. “Because people always hear themselves snore.”
“That’s not the point. It has nothing to do with hearing it.”
“It kind of is the point.” He completely ignores the second half of your statement.
You glare at him across the room. “You’re making it up.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
You grab the thin pillow off of your bunk and throw it at him. It hits him square in the chest. He looks down at it, then back at you.
“…Really?”
“You deserved that.”
“For telling the truth?”
“For being annoying.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It should be.”
He picks up the pillow, turning it over in his hands like he’s considering something.
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t throw that back.”
“I wasn’t going to. Matter of fact, I might just keep it.”
“Minho.”
You stare at him. He stares back. Without warning, he tosses it. You barely have time to react before it hits you in the face.
You drop back onto your bunk with an annoyed groan, clutching the pillow to your chest. “You’re the worst.”
“And you snore.”
“I do not snore!”
“Do too.”
And then, Minho had been right before. WCKD was making it worse for you. When they came to get you for testing, you were handcuffed every time without fail. You always had some sort of restraints on you, and not once were they loose after the stunt you pulled previously.
There was one time where you were stupid enough to fight against the guards taking you out of pure anger, and you and Minho ended up with a taser in your sides. You for fighting, and Minho for getting angry and threatening them.
After that, you stopped fighting. There was no point.
Currently, you sit on the cold floor with your back against your bunk, gaze fixed on the wall across from you.
Minho has been watching you for the last fifteen minutes.
“You’re doing it again,” he says. No response.
“Hey, earth to runner.”
Still nothing.
“You just gonna stare at the wall all day?” he asks, frustration creeping into his tone.
“What’s the point?” you finally speak.
Minho frowns. “What?”
“This.” You gesture weakly around the room. It’s a different room now, yet same concept—WCKD had moved you again.
“The room?”
“All of it.”
Minho pushes himself off his bunk. “Don’t start that.”
You laugh humorlessly. “Start what?”
“The whole ‘we’re doomed’ klunk.”
You look up at him through tired eyes. “You don’t get it.”
“Try me.”
You stand suddenly, irritation surging through you. “They’re draining us, Minho!” Your voice echoes throughout the barely furnished room. “And that’s all they’re going to keep doing.”
He crosses his arms, unmoved by your outburst. “I’m well aware of what they’re doing. And until we’re out of here, you need to try not giving up.”
“You still think we’re getting out of here?” you ask, disbelieving. You know you sound hopeless, like you’ve completely given up, and maybe you have.
“We will.”
“You don’t know that!” your voice cracks, barely noticeable but still there. “They’re not letting us go, and I have a hard time believing anyone is going to find us. We’re just lab rats now.”
Minho’s expression hardens. “Stop talking like that.”
“Like what? Being realistic?”
“No, like you’ve already given up.”
You throw your hands up, laughing bitterly, but say nothing more.
He takes a step closer. “You think I’m just going to sit here and let them win?”
“They already have!”
The room goes silent. Your chest heaves, and Minho just stares at you. Then, he snaps.
“Stop acting like you’re already dead!”
You stare at him. He looks angry, but there’s something else there too.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about you. You, who carried enough sass in the Scorch for the both of you, who didn’t let anything get in your way, whose spirit couldn’t be broken because that’s how runners operated.
And WCKD was taking that from you.
You break your stare, opting to look down at your hands instead. “I’m tired, Minho.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“No,” you say softly. “I mean..tired.” Your voice cracks slightly again. “Tired of them taking us. Tired of waiting. Tired of wondering if the next time they drag me out there is the one where I don’t come back.”
Minho’s anger dissipates. He takes another step closer so that he’s standing right in front of you.
“Look at me,” you say and laugh bitterly. “I used to run through a maze full of monsters every day,” you continue. “And somehow that felt easier than this.”
Minho doesn’t say anything for a moment as you try to still your shaking hands. Then, he says your name so gently that it startles you into looking up at him. He looks at you for a second, then does something you’d never expect him to do in a million years.
He pulls you into a hug.
It’s unsure at first, like he’s worried that you’re going to fight it and start swinging or start cussing him out.
Instead, you melt into it. Your entire body sags against him, arms snaking around his midsection. His grip tightens once he realizes that you’re not going to protest, resting his chin on top of your head.
You strangely find yourself hoping that he doesn’t let go. Until now, you didn’t realize how badly you craved this kind of comfort. It feels foreign to you, but your walls have been broken down enough that you welcome it eagerly.
“You’re still here,” he murmurs. “After everything they’ve done.”
You don’t respond.
“You keep getting up. You keep fighting,” he continues. “That’s what a runner does.”
All you can do is nod.
After that, the two of you only grow closer.
You constantly find comfort in each other's arms, especially after the hard days. It felt strange at first, but now it just feels routine.
It was especially necessary after WCKD moved you to the Last City.
On the journey there, you realized that Minho was right. Thomas and the rest of the Gladers did come for you. You could hear them pounding on the metal of the box car of the train, shouting Minho’s name.
And you were hopeful, until WCKD pulled you and Minho from the box car and moved you to a different one before the Gladers could take off with it.
You understood why they moved Minho, but why they moved you, you weren’t sure.
Fury flooded through you while you watched Janson walk around from your spot in the dirt, asking how many they took. He approached the two of you with a smug look on his face that you wish you could’ve wiped right off of him.
“We’re searching the area, but they’re probably long gone by now,” one of the men had said to Janson.
The Rat Man looked down on the two of you with a sneer, like you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on his shoe. “Oh no they’re not going anywhere. He didn’t get what he really wanted,” he had said.
When you reach the Last City, the two of you are thrown in a room once again.
This one is smaller, more confined. It’s narrow, with bunks on both sides of the wall, though it’s only the two of you in there.
You’d be lying if being in the Last City didn’t make you nervous. The facility is huge, and you can’t imagine what their plans might be bringing you here.
As it turns out, especially with the threat of Thomas looming, they want to extract the cure faster than ever before.
The simulations are horrible and cruel.
It’s strange, the way your mind and body are constantly in fight or flight. More so your mind, because almost every test or simulation they bring you to, you’re sedated.
The first time they put you and Minho into your respective simulations, they bring you to the same room. It was unusual for them to do so, and that’s what makes you nervous. It isn’t a huge room, but it still has that sterile, white feel to it that you’ve become accustomed to. There’s a large window overlooking the room, which you can only assume is for onlookers to watch you. The thought makes you shudder.
There are two tables awaiting the two of you, directly across from each other. While you’re used to restraints at this point, you notice something a little different about these ones. Large harnesses, almost like ones you would see on a rollercoaster, with what looked like a headpiece attached to them.
You share a worried glance with Minho. However, if he’s scared, he doesn’t show it. You wish you could say the same about yourself.
It doesn’t take long for you to figure out why they’d brought you in together.
You’re both strapped down to your individual tables, and they’re tilted up until you’re upright. Now the harness makes sense.
WCKD doctors and technicians waste no time. They grab supplies, moving around you and Minho, poking and prodding with needles–nothing unusual. But then you see the large, dialysis looking machine next to you whir to life, and your heart drops.
Your panic only rises as they attach more tubing to you. Then, one of the technicians hits a button on the machine.
Minho’s chest tightens, watching as dark red begins to move through the clear tubing. It flows quickly, cycling through the machine, moving through the other tube back into your body.
He meets your wide eyes, panic written all over your face in a way he truly hasn’t seen before. Not like this. Not when you can usually hide it behind sarcasm or anger or jabs. This was different. It was raw, unbridled fear.
“Minho,” you swallow hard. “Minho, what are they doing?
He can’t give you a clear answer to that. Instead, he pulls hard against his restraints. “I don’t know,” he says, voice tight. “Just–hey, look at me.”
You do. Your breathing is uneven now, chest rising and falling too fast against the harness across it. Personnel adjust the contraption on your head to their liking, wires and electrodes attached to your forehead. You try to glance sideways at them, just to get a glimpse at what they’re doing.
“Look at me.” Minho’s voice snaps you back to him.
Your eyes flicker back to him, trying to focus on his face and his face only.
“There you go,” he says, softer now. “You’re good. You’re okay.”
“I’m not okay,” you choke out. Never in a million years would you have admitted that to anyone in the past, but you don’t care anymore. You don’t care. You’re terrified.
“Yes, you are.”
You appreciate the effort of him trying to be reassuring, but it hardly works. Especially when a doctor steps closer to you, large syringe in hand.
“Minho.” Your voice is smaller now, quieter. “I don’t want to..” you trail off.
Minho swallows. “I know.”
“I don’t want to go under again–”
“I know,” he repeats, voice strained.
Your eyes stay locked onto his. For a moment, everything else disappears. The machines, the guards, the doctors. It’s just you and him.
“Stay with me,” he says.
You shake your head weakly. “I’m trying. I’m scared, Minho.”
Those words coming from your mouth hit him harder than anything else. He leans forward as much as his restraints will allow. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”
The only thing you can give him in response is a weak nod, before the syringe is plunged into your skin. Your body tenses sharply momentarily, hands curling into tight fists. Then, your movements falter. The sedative works quickly, and your eyes roll into the back of your head seconds later no matter how hard you try to fight it.
When the machines beside you beep steadily, indicating stable vitals, they move onto Minho. They hook him up in the same exact fashion as you, yet he hardly notices. His focus is solely fixed on you.
“Simulation initiated,” someone calls out from behind a computer.
Minho’s eyes narrow, still looking at you. There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary happening quite yet.
Suddenly, just as they’re about to put him under, your body jerks against the restraints. Minho involuntarily flinches, not expecting the movement. Your chest rises and falls quicker, sweat forming a thin sheen on your forehead.
The needle hovers over his skin, but is not yet injected.
A scream tears itself from your throat, loud and terrified.
He thrashes against his restraints. “What the hell?! Stop it!” he shouts, but it falls on deaf ears.
His heart thuds against his ribcage. Horrifyingly, he can’t look away. Can’t stop hearing it echo in his ears. You’re screaming like you’re being torn apart, and they’re making him watch.
That’s when he realizes what they’re doing. This is purposeful—maybe even punishment. Control.
Break one, break the other.
With despair, Minho remembers that WCKD has been watching. Your whole time here, they’ve been watching through the cameras placed in the corners of your rooms. They’ve been watching your relationship develop.
And now, they're using it to their advantage.
The needle finally pierces his skin. As he slips into his own unconsciousness, the last thing he hears is your screams. And the last thing he realizes is that WCKD makes sure of it.
-
Your simulations are filled with the Maze. Being hunted by Grievers. By Cranks in the Scorch.
Your friends, paired with one of your biggest fears: not being able to save them. Not being strong enough.
Then, Minho is there, strangely enough.
And you get to watch him die, over and over again, in a dream that you have no control over and can’t voluntarily wake up from.
-
When the two of you are returned to your room, barely conscious and dragged in, it’s silent. What is there to say, really? You both had just been through one of the most traumatizing things you can remember, and it topped the Maze by a long shot. For you, at least.
You drag yourself to your bunk, climbing in, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Your head still feels heavy from the sedatives, and when you lay down, it feels like your brain is rattling around in your skull. You figure with how tired your body feels, sleep will come easily.
It doesn’t.
Every time you close your eyes, all you see are flashes of memories. Memories that aren’t real, and you know they aren’t real, but they haunt you just the same.
Over the next few days, it dawns on you quickly that the simulations are the quickest method of extracting the serum in large quantities, and the method that’s closest to the Maze. Serum extraction of this nature requires stimulation of neural pathways, you had heard one of the doctors say.
They don’t take you together anymore. Once WCKD made sure that Minho saw what they wanted him to see, it didn't matter anymore. They just wanted to make sure you both knew that they were using your relationship to their advantage; that they knew you weren’t just enemies anymore. You figure that’s precisely why the two of you were roomed together all this time, why WCKD took you off the train with Minho. It’s cruel, but that’s all WCKD knows how to be.
The next time Minho comes back from having more serum sucked from his body, you almost think he’s dead for a moment.
You don’t look up right away when the door opens. Your gaze is fixed on a small, insignificant crack in the wall opposite to you, like you could memorize it if you try hard enough. That has become your thing lately. Anything to stay grounded.
The sound of boots dragging against the floor makes you blink. You turn your head, and still. Minho is being dragged into the room, completely deadweight. The guards drop him carelessly onto his bunk, then leave as quickly as they came.
For a second, you think they might’ve killed him. He’s so still, laying on his side, eyes unfocused. Your chest tightens. “Minho?”
No response.
You push yourself to your feet, despite your legs protesting. Ignoring it, you cross the room and crouch beside him.
“Minho?”
Still nothing.
He’s breathing, though. Shallow and uneven, but there. Relief hits you like a truck. You hesitate for a moment, then reach out, hand hovering over his shoulder.
“Hey.”
Nothing. No snarky comment, no annoyed response, no anything. Just silence.
You swallow. “Okay…”
Your stomach twists. You don’t like this at all. Trying again, your voice comes out softer. “Minho.”
His gaze doesn’t move, doesn’t shift towards you. He doesn’t acknowledge you at all. You stand there for a moment, unsure. This is new. Not the exhaustion or the silence, but the emptiness. Like whatever they’d done to him had scraped something out and hadn’t bothered putting it back.
You rub your hands together, suddenly restless. Your chest feels tight.
Then, you move before you can think about it too much. You climb onto the bunk beside him, careful, slow.
He doesn’t react at first.
You hesitate for half a second, then you shift closer, laying down beside him. You’re facing him, looking into his eyes, though he doesn’t meet yours. “...You’re kinda freaking me out,” you mutter.
No response, again. You exhale shakily. “Great. Cool. Love that.” You look at him again, and something in your chest feels like it cracks a little. “Okay. We’re not doing this.”
Slowly, cautiously, you reach for him. One of your arms snakes around him, hand feeling the warmth of his back through his shirt. You hesitate again, but your hand trails up and down his back in what you hope is a soothing motion.
“Minho,” you whisper after a while, after he still hasn’t reacted to your presence. “You’re here, right?”
Silence.
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Don’t do this,” you murmur. “Don’t..not be here.” You never thought you’d say it, but you miss him arguing with you right about now. You miss his sassy remarks, miss him being the one to not give up. There’s a part of you that wishes he would shove you off of the bunk right now, just so you’d have something to yell at him about.
“You can’t shut down on me like this. I can’t do this alone,” you say suddenly, quietly, not really meaning to. But it’s the truth, whether you like it or not. You can’t do this without him.
And then, a shift. Minho’s muscles shift under your hands, and you can hear a sharp intake of breath as his breath hitches. You freeze for a moment.
Then he pulls you in hard. A startled noise tumbles from your lips as his arms wrap around you, pulling you fully against him. Tight. Almost too tight. Like if he let go, you’d disappear.
“Minho–” you squeak out, but his grip only tightens, crushing and desperate.
His face buries into your neck, breathing uneven. “I’m here,” he rasps. “I’m here, I’m here–”
You almost sag in relief at the sound of his voice. You don’t hesitate, clinging back just as tight, hands fisting into his shirt. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”
He shifts, rolling onto his back and bringing you with him. His arms don’t loosen. If anything, they tighten again like he needs to convince himself that you’re real. That he’s real, and that everything about this is real.
His mouth opens, as if he’s going to say something, but he falters. He starts to speak, but he cuts himself off as if he can’t bear to finish the thought.
You don’t push. You just shake your head, shushing him. “Minho, it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
He only nods, one of his hands sliding up to the back of your neck, fingers brushing the hair at the nape of your neck. It slides down after a moment, coming to rest between your shoulder blades. The other stays locked across your back, keeping you anchored to him.
The two of you stay like that. Your head rests against his chest, listening to his heart still hammer against his rib cage. His hand shifts slightly against your back, not loosening, just adjusting like he needs to make sure you’re still there. Still his to hold onto.
You don’t move away, don’t even consider it. “I’m not going anywhere,” you finally say quietly.
Minho lets out a shaky breath at that. “Good.” His voice was softer now. He peers down at you finally, you can feel it. You look up to meet his eyes.
That must’ve been all he needed to see, because he pulls you back into him. Not as frantic this time, but still tight and still close.
He wasn’t trying to stop himself from falling apart and unraveling anymore. He was just trying to hold onto something that kept him together.
Summary: you make your boyfriend play the ‘who knows me better’ game, but you told your friend all the answers before hand. So basically just rage baiting, lol. Includes Minho, Aris, Thomas, and Newt. Gn!reader, and friend
Warnings: I don’t think there are any, lmk thooo 🌸 this is really short, and really stupid lolll
A/n: I always see these types of videos, I think they’re just SO funny 😭 guys (I say while talking to a wall) be excited for me, I just got my first copy of the maze runner in English ❤️ and happy thanksgiving to anyone who celebrates 🥳
MINHO
Immediately agrees to play, has 100% confidence that he’s going to win
Knows all of them, your friend just answers like 0.02 seconds quicker
Even if he says it before them, you still give them the point, which is when he starts to pick up that something isn’t right
He GENUINELY starts to flip out. Like, new type of rage he’s never experienced before
“I SAID IT BEFORE THEM! YOU’RE BOTH CHEATING!”
Is literally yelling, thrashing, and whining by like the 5th question. He KNOWS he knows you better
Is insisting that you’re both cheating, won’t let it go until someone admits it
Actually stops the whole game, like literally won’t continue
Rage quit final boss
And if you don’t apologize best believe you’re getting the silent treatment for at least 15 minutes (know your worth, king ✌️)
ARIS
Agrees to play after some coaxing, thought it seemed dumb
He’s confident he knows you well, but doesn’t think he’s gonna go triple platinum or anything
Doesn’t get angry, like a certain somebody, just gets disheartened
After like three questions he’d start to pick up on it
“Wait, are you guys cheating?”
He went from feeling like the world's worst boyfriend, to feeling like an idiot for not noticing that sooner
Probably thought it was funny, rather than rage inducing
Guilts you into saying sorry, lol 💔
THOMAS
He agreed to play to assert a kind of superiority over your friend. In a friendly way, of course
Extremely sure he knows you better
Imminently gets frustrated when your friend gets the first one before he did
“Wha- what no! I knew that one”
Loses it once he CLEARLY gets on before your friend but doesn’t get the point
Once he picks up that you guys are cheating, he also starts to cheat 😭
Starts covering your friends mouth, or just shoving them out the way
Not afraid to get physical, clearly
Makes you apologize to him, by like pouting or something stupid
NEWT
Agrees to play, because you were acting like this was life or death
Probably picks up on the fact your ahh is cheating immediately
Just by the way you’re cheesing 😭
Doesn’t say anything
Actually, I feel like he’d just intentionally start getting questions wrong because it’s funny
“You guys are such cheaters.”
Probably rolls his eyes all sassy
You both have to apologize to each other by the end because his answers to the questions were lowk outrageous 😭💔
pairing; GALLY x READER word count; 1.8k summary; you’re reunited with gally after a tumultuous few weeks of grieving his death. warnings; mentions of death and grief, canonical type violence, angst, hurt/comfort
A/N: this is set during ‘death cure’. all the characters are above the age of 18. there will be mentions of death, violence, and the flare. if you’re not in the right headspace to read something heavy, then please take care of yourself.
FOR THE LONGEST TIME, ALL YOU HAD WANTED WAS TO ESCAPE THE GLADE. You spent countless restless nights sitting under the stars and wondering what the world outside was like. There were times when you truly lost hope. There were times when you didn’t think you would make it out alive - that the only time you would ever get a glimpse of what was beyond the grey, harsh walls would be in your dreams. Or even the afterlife.
Now, as you trekked along the depressing streets, you found yourself wishing for that blissful ignorance again. Ben, Chuck, Gally, Winston. Those names were on repeat in your mind almost every night and every morning. They died so that you could live, and that had to count for something.
You remembered vividly what it was like to see a fellow Glader die right in front of you. Sure, Ben was banished; but he had died long before he was sent out into the Maze. He was dead the moment the infection took hold of his body.
Gally was next. His stubborn nature caused his demise, and Chuck’s too. Clenching your eyes, you blinked away the anger and resentment. Gally had been your friend. He was a hard-headed ass, and too overbearing, but he always took care of you when it mattered. Even if he was grumpy about it while doing so.
There was no place for love in the Glade, but if you had to pinpoint the first and last time you felt it, it would be for Gally. The memory of you begging him to come with you haunted your every waking moment. Tears, blood, and sweat covered your face as you dragged his sleeve - crying, almost falling to your knees to convince him. You’ll never forget the way he looked at you, the way he shook you off his arm like you were some pest.
And you couldn’t forget about Winston. His death was still fresh in everyone’s mind. It was hard to forget the echo of the gunshot that had ended his life - even if it was by his own hands.
A harsh slam woke you from your thoughts. Someone had rammed straight into you, trying to pass you. Looking up, you saw them walk past a cargo truck. A tall man was sat on it - gas mask heavy and tight on his face as he seemingly stared straight through you. You shivered before looking away. The streets were too crowded. Thomas held onto your arm tightly as he maneuvered his way around. Honestly, your search was feeling futile.
If you could go back in time, maybe you would’ve never left the Glade. Maybe Gally was right.
“Over there,” said Thomas, pointing to something in the distance.
You squinted, not quite understanding what he was getting at. In truth, you weren’t even sure how he knew what to look for. The Right Arm hadn’t been heard of in years. That’s what everyone had said. You were looking for ghosts.
“Thomas-“ you started, wanting to reason with him. Words caught in your throat as a bullet wheezed straight past you two.
All hell broke loose as swarms of bodies shoved and pulled - trying to escape the danger of being shot. Newt and Brenda had disappeared. Whipping your head around, you yelled for them, not wanting to lose another friend to the chaos that this world offered.
Before you knew it, a strong grip dragged you away, and everything went black as a strange fabric went over your face.
“Let me go!” you yelled, looking at the familiar mask on the soldier’s face. You quickly recognized them as the ones who were riding around town earlier.
The car ride had been brutally long. Your muscles ached, and your eyes were sore from being in the dark for so long. Frantically looking around, you tried to find your friends. Surprisingly so, your arms weren’t tied. The only thing stopping you was the almost painful hold on your upper arm. Whoever these people were, they didn’t seem like they wanted to hurt you - or else you’d most likely be dead by now.
You huffed as you were manhandled into a room. There was something about the soldier - something about them gave you a sense of deja vu. It was the way they held themselves, the way their breaths came in ragged gasps as you stared at their chest. Each moment felt like a distant memory that you had seen before. Furrowing your brows, you decided it was your memory loss messing with you again. It was common for you to think you remembered something from your past, just for it to be a fluke.
You were quickly let go, and you jogged up to Newt, wrapping him in a hug.
“I was worried sick,” he mumbled. “Where are the others?”
You shrugged as your eyes scanned around. Spotting Brenda, you nodded to her. There were significantly less of you than you’d initially had begun with. Had they taken the rest to a different location? Your heart hammered rapidly against your ribcage as you stepped back. You eyed the familiar soldier, noting the way his shoulders squared back as he stood tall.
You shook your head. I don’t know him. It’s all just fake memories. Get over yourself. Get over yourself-
A shout interrupted the awkward and anxious silence. As Jorge began laying down punch after punch on one of the men, Brenda ran up to him to put a stop to it. All your eyes were looking for was Thomas and Fry.
After everything you had all been through, the thought of losing someone else was unbearable. You couldn’t afford another loss like that. Letting out a deep breath, you watched as Frypan and Thomas stepped up, curiously staring down the soldier at the end of the room.
Words were exchanged, but none of them stuck.
His voice. It sounded like…
“What do you mean same side? Who the hell are you?”
The soldier stopped, his arm flexing as he lowered the gun in his hand. He looked away briefly before slowing pulling off his mask. A buzzed head came into view, and you had almost no time to process before his face turned to look at you.
All you could see was blue. The color of his eyes. The same eyes you had looked into as you pleaded and sobbed. The same ones you had watched the light slowly die out of. The eyes you had so long ago fallen in love with.
Both of your gazes locked onto each other’s, and if it weren’t for Newt’s hands steadying you, you genuinely think you could’ve passed out. It was like seeing a ghost.
All you heard was a loud commotion behind you as you turned to sprint out of the room. Another minute in there and you would lose your mind.
Pushing open the door to the balcony, you panted slightly, trying to get your bearings. The cool breeze pinched your cheeks, causing a slight twinge of pain. It was usually warm during the day, but the nights were freezing. In the Glade it had always been warm - never a dull day. Perhaps once every few months you’d get rain, which was always good for the crops, but it was never necessarily cold.
Shivering, you wrapped your arms around you. Weirdly enough you had never been more glad to feel the chill of air run through your bones. It was the only thing reminding you that you were alive.
Alive. Gally was alive.
Burying your face in your palms, you paced around. You spent almost three weeks grieving him. You saw him die - no, correction, you watched and left him to die.
His face tormented you every time you closed your eyes. The tears he cried as he realized he was being left for dead, the scream that had left your body as you were pulled away from the scene. Gally was the first person you had ever truly opened up to. You had been in the Glade for the brunt of 2 years, and over time you’d like to think you had gotten under his tough exterior.
The nights where you both couldn’t sleep. Your head in his shoulder, and his hand intertwined with yours, precariously tip-toeing the line between friendship and something more.
Then, in a split second, it was all gone.
“Hey, firecracker.”
You winced at the nickname. Gally had given it to you on your first week there. He said you would give him a run for his money with the way you snapped and yelled at everyone. Really, it was just because you were scared - especially being the only girl.
You blinked away tears. “Please, don’t.”
Your voice came out more shaky than you had liked. It wasn’t that you weren’t relieved to see him, it’s just that you didn’t exactly end on good terms. Now, seeing him alive and well - and so, unbelievably tall and handsome - it made you question everything.
He whispered your name, and you felt his body heat burn unbearably against your back as he stepped closer.
“Look at me.”
Shaking your head, you clenched your eyes shut, letting a few stray tears fall. “I’m can’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
The last time you let yourself cry was that exact fateful day. Every single tear in your body had been used up to the point that you weren’t sure you were even capable of crying anymore.
Your back hit something hard, and you soon realized that two familiar arms were holding you to his chest. He breathed in and out, his inhales pressing against your back, indicating and proving that this was real. That he was real.
“How?” You sobbed, leaning into his arm.
Really, you didn’t care how. All that mattered was that he was here. And bit by bit, you would hopefully fix what was broken - regain what was lost.
Shifting around, you collapsed against him, wrapping your arms around his torso and gripping at his shirt desperately. You felt that if you let go, he would disappear. Just as he did the first time - when you let go of his sleeve, and he slipped away from your grasp, like he was never even there.
The only words that you were able to conjure were feeble apologies as you let yourself sob against his shirt. Inhaling his scent again for what felt like a lifetime, you finally felt like things were piecing together. Like you were whole again. Taking a quivering deep breath in, you finally lifted your head to look at him. He was just as beautiful as the day he left you.
He cupped your face as he rested his forehead against yours. You must have stayed like that for hours - or maybe it was only a few minutes.
All you knew was that no words had to be spoken for you both to understand. You were never going to leave each other again.
LOVED YOUR THOMAS FIC!! Please write more Maze Runner. ALSO, I am a sucker for established relationship.
What about Thomas and reader (established relationship) reunite after being separated?
this is literally a year old but I discovered it in my drafts and had to post! pretty sure the maze runner fandom is dead rn but I simply do not care
tmr!thomas x fem!reader | established relationship, fluff and a bit of angst (set in the death cure)
Thomas thinks, if he doesn’t find you soon, he might as well be dead. He’s well on his way. His heart hasn’t felt normal since WCKD took you. It’s felt heavy as lead, weighing down in his chest like a rock, making it hard to walk, hard to breathe. He hasn’t been able to sleep, but being awake is so much worse. It’s horrible, spending every waking moment worrying about what WCKD is doing to you, wondering if you’re even alive, thinking about all the things he could’ve done better to save you.
The guilt eats at him like a virus, clawing at his heart and up his throat. Eating him alive and spitting him right back out until he feels like a zombie. A dead boy walking.
It takes over his body now, so much so that he’s not really thinking at all as he breaks into WCKD headquarters. He’s thinking, but he’s not thinking. He lets his body take over, he smashes through glass windows and knocks out guards with the butt of his gun, he busts down metal doors and screams your name down the fluorescent white and blue halls.
He yells himself hoarse. He and Newt come to a T shape in the seemingly never-ending hallways. Newt yells for them to take one each, and Thomas barrels down the right one, his heart pounding in his ears. He peers through big glass windows, sees machines and medical carts and computers, but no you. He’s starting to feel desperate. He’s starting to feel like he might kill someone just to find you. His legs feel numb. Then,
“Thomas! I’ve got her!”
Thomas runs faster than he’s ever run before. Twists on his heel and very nearly breaks his ankle, but goes sprinting the way he came, and down the hallway Newt took. Hope and guilt and desperation and regret surge through his body like electricity in his veins. He’s running so fast, so blind with hope, that he almost slams right into Newt. His friend grabs his elbow.
“Woah.” He’s breathing hard. But he’s smiling. “She’s okay, Tom.”
And then you appear as if out of nowhere, stepping out from behind Newt like an angel in a fiery, burning hot hell. You look pale. You look weak. You’re in a hospital gown and no shoes. There’s a big bruise in the crook of your elbow and your lips are cracked. But you’re here. He doesn’t want to sound like a loser, but Thomas could cry buckets right now.
“Y/N,” he says. He doesn’t sound like himself. Doesn’t feel like himself. He feels as if he’s standing watching the scene as merely an observer. It’s an odd feeling, an out of body experience.
“Thomas,” you say, and the relief in your tone breaks his heart into a million little pieces that seem to spill out onto the floor in front of him.
Thomas surges for you. He scoops you into a hug so tight it’s sure to bruise, which is stupid, but he isn’t thinking straight, and you squeeze him just as hard, anyway. You fling your arms around his neck and keep them there. Thomas doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They’re everywhere — your hair, your back, your neck — it’s like he’s worried you’ll slip away, or worried you’re merely a ghost of the girl he loves. The fabric of your hospital gown is starchy and foreign in his hands, but you’re warm and soft and familiar underneath it all.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s crying now, and Newt’s right there watching the whole thing, but Thomas doesn’t care. His heart hammers faster than light. Or is that your heart? He can’t tell, you’re pressed so tight to him they may as well be the same. “I’m so sorry.”
You shake your head hard where it’s buried in his neck. You’re crying too, he feels your warm tears sticky on his skin. “Don’t. Don’t say that. I’m okay, Tom.” Your hand is in his hair, stroking him gently like he’s the one who’d been kidnapped, not you. “It’s not your fault.”
Thomas blinks away hot, hot tears. They blur his vision. His ears are ringing, or is than an alarm somewhere blaring in the distance? He can’t tell, it doesn’t matter, he’s got you now and he’s never letting go.
Newt says something but neither of you hear him. You’re too busy coveting the hair at the nape of Thomas’ neck, and he’s too busy running his hands over the planes of your back as if memorising them. Newt tries again, louder.
“We have to go now!” he shouts, gripping Thomas’ shoulder.
Thomas pulls back, blinking rapidly. His ears finally stop ringing, only for them to pick up something worse, gunshots and yelling coming from somewhere too close, followed by thundering footsteps. He curses and takes your shoulders in two rough hands. Just be strong for a little longer, his touch says.
“I’m sorry,” he tells you again. Guilt and sincerity roll into one to ache like a wound over his heart. “We have to go now, sweetheart. We’re gonna find Minho and get you the hell out of here. Can you walk?”
He’s willing to carry you if you have to. But you nod and grab his hand fiercely. The three of you take off down the hallway and Thomas decides he’s never, ever, letting you go again.
