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heliads · 2 months

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Hello if on’t know if it’s closed or open but if it’s close I’m sorry erase what I did, can you do a Thomas tmr hurt comfort when the reader is sad and reckless and everyone in the group notice and try to cheer her up ? Because she feel empty with everything that happened in her life from the glade to the scorch ? Please 🙏 thank you 💕

'after the safe haven' - thomas

masterlist

No one knows you better than the Gladers.

That, of course, should come as no surprise. You and your friends have survived more horrors than you ever thought possible. If it weren’t enough to find yourselves stranded in the middle of a massive maze without any memory of who you were or how you got there, you also had to break yourselves out, then find a way to survive both WCKD and the end of the world.

When you finally made it to the Safe Haven, you had assumed that you would finally be alright. You weren’t in danger anymore. You and your friends were safe. WCKD couldn’t find you if it tried, and the Cranks were an ocean away. It was truly a paradise. It should have been enough for you.

It wasn’t.

How could it possibly be enough? Whenever you looked around, you saw the signs of society starting to rebuild itself. Some of your fellow Gladers were taking charge, having already been used to what it took to organize everyone after the Maze trials, and others opted for simple jobs, deciding that their days of responsibility were over. Your friends are doing better, for the most part, but you feel the opposite way.

No, you feel terrible. It’s like having this break from running around day and night has only given you the time to realize how much you’ve lost. When you watch Minho and Thomas joking with each other, you don’t appreciate their friendship, you think about how strange it is that Newt isn’t there with them, or Alby, or Chuck. When one of the younger kids falls and skins their knee, your first response isn’t to brush off this small injury but to wonder if they could have survived out in the Scorch with an open wound. It would get infected easily, you know. Anything could happen.

This is supposed to be the part where you relax and give up your paranoia, but you just can’t manage it. Even weeks after the last time you came in contact with WCKD or the Cranks, you still jump whenever you hear a loud noise when you’re not expecting it. You still get nightmares about running through the Scorch with a pack of infected behind you. You still carry your weapons around, even though there’s nothing to fight. Even Gally has given up on tucking knives into his belt loops, even Minho knows there’s nothing to run from. Everyone is aware of this but you.

You’re not sure why you’re taking it so much harder than the rest. All of your friends are dealing with all of the torment of the Maze and the Scorch, obviously. The first few days after you arrived at the Safe Haven, everyone’s eyes had bags under them from lost sleep, and no one could hold a conversation without speaking quietly in case a Crank heard them or jumping when they saw someone moving in the distance.

Over time, though, they were all able to move on. You’re coming up on a month after your arrival in the Safe Haven, yet you’re no closer to healing than you were at the start. You’re not sure what it takes for you to be better, but at this point, you’re willing to wager anything. You spend time with your friends, but you can’t stop yourself from being quiet and withdrawn. You force yourself to put in extra hours at your job in the hopes that the tedium of a chore will take your mind off of things, but you still get nightmares when you go to bed, no matter how exhausted you feel.

It’s enough to make anyone feel hopeless. You’re sure your friends are aware of it, but there’s nothing they can do. Everyone’s dealing with this, everyone’s trying to figure out how they are when they’re not fearing for their lives. There’s simply no good way to move on after the apocalypse.

Thomas, however, seems to be the most attuned to your shift in mood. He asks how you are every morning, and doesn’t seem content until you honestly answer him. He’ll listen to you ramble on about the unsettled feeling in your blood when you don’t have to be on the run anymore, and he constantly reassures you that you’re all going to be alright.

Truthfully, you don’t know what you’d do without him. Thomas is one of the best parts of your life, if not the very best entirely. You have no idea how he’s still going after losing so many friends right before his eyes, but he somehow manages to not only keep himself alive but you, too. He’s all you need. Him, and the splendid truth of the Safe Haven, the knowledge that for once in your life, you are not going to die. Not of something violent, at least. That’s worth more than you could have ever imagined.

You wonder what you must have been like in a former life, before WCKD stole your memories or even stole you away from your home. Before the disease of the Cranks. Before the solar flares. When everything was simple and you didn’t feel like you do right now– haunted, terrified, and uncertain of who you’re supposed to be when the world isn’t ending. Maybe you would have been close with Thomas anyway. Maybe you never would have known him at all.

If there is one good thing to come out of this chaos, you have to admit it would be him. Thomas is a bright spark. He stood out in the darkest nights of the Maze, the worst horrors of the Scorch. If there’s one reason you’re still alive, it’s him.

And, if there’s one reason you’re going to become your old self again, or at least grow as close as you can, it’ll be because of Thomas, too. That night, Thomas gathers your old friends from the Glade and announces that they’ll be bringing back a good tradition from your old days before you broke out of the Maze: bonfire night.

Instantly, your spirits soar. Much like every other Glader, past and present, bonfire nights were the best times you had. Gally manages to cook up a batch of his special brew in record time, Frypan’s already hard at work producing some delicious foods, and crews of people are bringing back piles of wood for your fire.

When the sun sets, the bonfire is lit. You watch as the flames climb up to the sky. Around you, the survivors of the Flare laugh and shout and dance, talking to each other and having fun. You can feel the heat of the fire on your cheeks even despite the cool night, and for what feels like the first time in a very long time indeed, you smile.

Thomas pushes through the crowd to come to a stop by your side. “I haven’t seen that in a while,” he says.

You chuckle quietly. “I haven’t had a whole lot of reasons to smile. Thanks for proving otherwise.”

“Anytime,” Thomas promises. “We made it out, Y/N. We’re alive. We might as well celebrate, right?”

“I know, I just feel bad for celebrating when we’ve lost so many people,” you admit. “It doesn’t feel right that we’re all out here having a good time when we left so many of our friends behind.”

Thomas blows out a low breath through his teeth. “I know how you feel. Shuck, I feel it every day. I don’t think our friends would want us to be moping around all the time, though.”

“Really?” You ask doubtfully.

“Really,” he repeats. “Come on, you know Alby is watching us somewhere, shaking his head with annoyance that he went to the trouble of saving us just so we can waste the chance he gave us. Same with Newt, and Teresa, and the rest. They’d want us to be happy. They wanted that when they were alive, too.”

Your heart twists painfully at the mentions of the friends you’ve lost. “I think so, too. And I’m trying, it’s just hard sometimes.”

“I know,” Thomas tells you. “You’re trying, though. So am I. That’s the important part.”

You look back towards the bonfire. You can see some of the Gladers clustered together. Minho’s telling a dramatic story about something he’d discovered that day; he spreads his arms wide to demonstrate something and they all break out into laughter, even Gally. Maybe Thomas is right. Maybe there’s something here worth smiling about after all.

“Let’s have fun tonight,” you decide.

Thomas puts his arm around your waist, starting to lead you back towards the bonfire, back towards your friends, back towards the life you’d like to keep on living. “Let’s.”

It’ll take a while for the nightmares to stop, for you to avoid flinching whenever someone mentions something that reminds you of the Glade. You’ll never be exactly who you were before you woke up in the Box, but maybe that’s alright. You have a life you never thought you’d have, and best of all, you have a happy ending. You have Thomas. You’re going to be alright.

requested by @hope92100, i hope you enjoy!

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justanobsessedfangirl · 1 year

Text

A Mission - The Maze Runner Imagine

Request from Anonymous: i loved ur 'how you meet' preferences!! could you write a griever slaying fem reader? i know this sounds wack but hear me out she comes straight out the box running for the hills and instead of stopping when they tell her not to go in there she runs straight in. minho or one of the other runners find her killing a griever and theyre like what the FUCK and he drags her back to the glade like why is there a girl here why was she killing a griever and everyone is like what the FUCK just everyone being confused and bewildered at the first girl in the glade being batshit crazy

Author's Note: Thank you for the request! I hope you like it!

Word Count: 2.2k

I have a mission.

It's the first thing you remember when you wake up in this cramped box, and for a while, it's the only thing you can think.

I have a mission.

The details come to you in fragments. You know you'll have to run. You're ready for that, pacing around the rising room to keep your muscles warm.

I have a mission.

There's going to be danger, that you're sure of. The scars on your body that you have no memory of getting make you wonder if this isn't the first time you've had a mission like this. There's a long one that snakes along your calf, like someone wrapped a curl of barbed wire around your leg. Your hands are littered with tiny, long-healed cuts. When you flex your fingers, you feel strong. Hardened.

I have a mission.

The room shudders to a stop. The far half of the ceiling opens up and daylight pours in. You sink further into the shadows. The light stings your eyes, and the gentle hum of the ascent has been replaced by clamoring voices and the sound of constant movement. The box shakes with the thud of someone landing inside.

I have a mission.

You dart across the room, hearing the voices change to shock and confusion, and leap for the wall. Your fingers just barely grip the top. Your feet scrabble for purchase on the slick surface, but you're determined, you're quick, you're strong, and this is your mission so you must succeed.

You haul yourself out of the box. A mob of teenage boys stands in front of you, all around you, some laughing, some glaring, many simply confused. You run at them and they scramble away. For a strange, detached moment, you feel like a queen walking to her throne, the lords parting before her in deference, cheering.

There is no cheering as you sprint across the grass.

"He's making a run for it!" someone says, cackling.

"I think that was a girl," comes a different voice.

You run faster. Your eyes have adjusted to the brightness and you can see the blue sky, the grassy ground, and the hulking stone walls boxing you in.

Escape one box and run right into another, you think, and then, I have a mission.

There are a few breaks in the walls, massive doorways leading into a mystery. You're heading for the closest one. Behind you, there are loud footfalls and cries for you to "Stop! Don't go in there!" It sounds like someone tells you to "Stop being such a shank," but his words are choppy, confusing, and all you want is to complete your mission.

The entrance is so close, just a few more seconds of all-out sprinting, when you feel the heavy presence of someone behind you. Someone who wants to grab you. Who wants to stop you.

Without planning to, you come to a dead stop and drop into a crouch. The person behind you was too close, they can't stop soon enough, their shin collides with your back as they trip over you and slam to the ground in front of you.

You're back running before you can take a close look at him. Every muscle in your body is moving with instructions you haven't given, implementing lessons you don't remember teaching. Your surroundings are entirely new, entirely foreign—and yet, there's an uncanniness to everything you see. The colors and the season and the people are wrong. But the bones of this place, those are familiar. Especially, you realize as you enter the gap between the walls, the maze.

For the first time, your steps falter. The walls are gray stone and decked in ivy. That's wrong. They should be…they should be…

You want to shiver, the memory flees, all you know is the mission.

You sprint and take a left at the four-way intersection. All of the voices have faded. No one seems to be coming after you as you make your way down corridors, following a path that's branded like fire in your mind.

Straight. Right. Right. Left. Straight. Left. Right. Right. Straight. Straight. Straight. Left.

Here.

Here is a dead end. The walls are so thick with ivy you can barely see the stones. The air is still as a graveyard. You stand, panting, trying to remember what comes next.

From atop the wall, there's a clicking noise. You look up.

The creature is hideous, all mechanical limbs and throbbing, human-like skin. You half-expect giant wings to unfurl from its back (why? The memory slips away like a shadow) but instead it starts climbing down the ivy, whirling and clicking. Razor-sharp barbs glint along its body. Its mouth, a maw of metal, gnashes hungrily.

You remember what you have to do.

The boys find you faster than you thought they would. You hear them round the corner as the monster shrieks its death knell. Its mechanical body curls in like the husk of a bug. Blood drips down your arm, getting on the wires that droop from the metal disk you're holding. It's still warm from the creature's chest cavity, where it had been nestled like a heart. The disk is pockmarked with flashing dots of light. They blink at you a few times, the pause between each growing longer, and then they wink out. The creature at your feet, speared by its own jagged limb, falls silent.

"What the fuck."

The boy isn't asking, you realize as you turn around, the metal disk slipping from between your blood-slicked fingers. He has dark hair and dark eyes and an athlete's build, all lean muscle and confidence. His gaze darts from you to the monster, then back to the monster.

He's flanked by two others, one with shaggy brown hair and freckles who looks to him in deference, and the other, dark-skinned and serious, who steps forward, side-by-side with the speaker.

"Minho," commands the dark-skinned boy, "check that the Griever's really dead."

The boy who spoke first nods and starts toward you, trepidatious at first, then more sure as sees the monster (the Griever?) more clearly. "Definitely looks dead," he says. "I don't know how she's not."

Their stares feel like drills boring into your skin. Your back aches, hot with blood, and the muscles in your legs are tightening up. Your mission is done, you should feel happy, but you're still here in this strange, wrong, too-familiar place, and the adrenaline that had been fueling you is fading. You want to go home. You want your sleeping bag, covered in a blanket of fur and nestled in the—the—Gone. The memory is gone.

I had a mission, you think. And then you say it out loud, testing the words on your tongue, "I had a mission."

The boy closest to you, the one who'd been called Minho, stares at you like you've grown a second head. "You're jacked," he says with a breathy, perplexed chuckle.

The insult is on your lips before you can remember where it comes from: "Crackhead."

Minho lets out a booming laugh, then turns to the other boys. "Can we keep her, Alby?"

The serious boy, Alby, frowns deeper. "We need to hold a Gathering. Thomas, go tell Newt. We'll be right there."

The third boy, the one with brown hair and freckles, nods warily. He takes one last look at you and sprints back the way he came. You watch him go, ignoring the boys he left behind until you hear a clatter of metal.

Your body jerks into action, spinning around and putting your hands up, ready to fight the Griever again if you have to. But it was just Minho kicking the creature's body, poking and prodding at its innards.

"What's your name?" Alby asks from behind you.

You turn and back up a few steps so you can keep both boys in your field of vision. Minho is crouched over the Griever. Alby is staring at you, his gaze heavy, solemn. Distrustful.

"Y/N," you tell him.

Minho pries the Griever's jaw open. His voice echoes off the metal tunnel of the Griever's throat as he asks, "How'd you avoid getting stung?"

Before you can answer, Alby cuts in, voice sharp and angry. "Where did you come from? What do you mean mission?"

Your body aches. You don't want to be here, standing over a mutated, cybernetic monster, being questioned by strangers. "I don't know. I can't remember anything."

"You remembered more than we did," Alby fires back.

Minho straightens up. "Let's get her back to the Glade, Alby. She can answer at the Gathering."

You hate their lingo, want to spit on all of the slang you don't understand because you know the words that should be there instead (it's not called the Glade, it's called the…) but you can't find the words, so you jog with them through the maze, following Minho, Alby a few paces behind you. They have you locked in. There's an urge to break away from them at one of the intersections. You could push Minho into the wall and sprint past him, only where would you go?

"What is this place?" you ask as you run.

Minho glances back at you. He looks apprehensive, but there's a curious glint in his eyes. "We're in the Maze. Although, you really shouldn't be in here, Greenie." Looking forward again, he speaks in a louder voice, "Clearly you're a rule-breaker."

You still kind of want to push him.

As you get closer to the "Glade," you hear the murmur of voices. It gets louder and louder, until you can see the door at the end of the corridor and, beyond it, a swarm of boys. Somehow, they get even more raucous as you get closer. Their shouts blur together, meaningless words and sounds filling the air. They clamber into each other, everyone wanting to get closer, no one willing to step into the Maze.

"Out of the way, shanks!" Minho yells.

Boys push and pull, slinging insults and questions, and somehow the mass of chaos becomes two distinct groups, one on each side of you.

Minho leads you across the grass to a rustic building. It's practical and sturdy, all of the effort put towards making a building that won't fall, none left to make it inviting. Inside is quieter. For a second, you're grateful because the blood rushing in your ears and the pain singing across your body is enough noise. But as you follow Minho into another room, the air grows thick and tense. Every breath feels like you could choke on it.

Eleven boys sit in a semicircle, two empty seats amid the line. In the middle of the room is a single empty chair.

Your stomach sinks. Your feet pulse with pain.

Alby enters behind you, jerking his chin at the chair in the center. "That's yours." He watches and waits until you slowly walk to the chair and sink into it.

Your skin feels hot. You're acutely aware of the blood on your clothes, the sweat on your body. You feel like a science experiment, everyone examining you, anticipating your reactions so they can write them down, dissect them, find the answers they want. Mouth dry, you swallow and wait.

Alby and Minho take their seats, Minho beside the third boy from the Maze, the one Alby called Thomas.

"Who—"

"Why—"

"She's a—"

"We can't trust—"

"She killed a Griever." Alby's voice rises above the rest, the stern tone of a leader.

The other boys erupt into more questions. They bounce off the walls. You don't know who to look at, gaze darting from boy to boy until you land on the blond next to Alby. He's one of the few that isn't speaking, his brown eyes boring into yours. You don't know if he sees fatigue, fear, or anger on your face, but he gives a slight nod, almost to himself, and holds up a hand.

"Slim it!"

The others get out a few more unanswered questions before falling silent.

"What do you remember?" the blond asks, his words tinged with a familiar accent. You can't place where you've heard it, who you've heard it from, but you remember that she had blonde hair too, and…The thought fades away.

"I know I had a mission," you say. It's as simple as that, but the boys stare at you like you're speaking another language.

"What does that even—"

"Who gave you—"

"Where the fuck did you come from?"

The blond again holds his hand up against the barrage of questions.

The large boy to your left who spoke last scoffs and protests, "Let us ask, Newt. I know how we can get some answers."

Biting your tongue to keep more insults, origins unknown, from bursting out, you add the name to your memory, filing it with the others. The boy with the accent is Newt. The leader is Alby. You followed Minho through the Maze. And the third boy from the Maze who sits beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed together, his name is—

Thomas stands up. He looks far away, his eyes distant and unfocused. The room slowly quiets down.

"What is it, mate?" Newt asks.

Thomas doesn't look at him. For a few seconds, he just stares at the wall. Then his eyes snap to you. "She shouldn't be here."

The large boy grins, a harsh, twisted thing. "The Greenie's growing a brain."

Thomas doesn't react. Your eyes are locked with his, your breath stuck in your chest. Should you stop him? Should you beg him to continue? You don't have time to do either. Thomas stares at you and speaks.

"She's from Group B."

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