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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 3 days ago

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Instill in Me-Comfort (Final)

Description: After the situation in the basement between you and Demon! Dean. You could hear his screams to be saved and he could hear your most painful cries. Both yearning to escape the pit of loneliness that gripped you two tight.

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader ft. Castiel

Warnings: Language, Sad Themes

Thank you all for your constant support! And finally after like two years, this series is finally finished.

The walls of the safe house trembled.

At first, it was barely noticeable—an electrical hum beneath the silence. A flicker in the lights overhead, the faintest scent of sulfur snaking through the air. Then a muffled thud echoed from the basement, and the light over the kitchen table buzzed once before stabilizing.

Y/N looked up from her journal, fingers frozen mid-sentence. Her stomach dropped.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It was oppressive. Final.

She rose slowly, every instinct screaming. She wasn't naive. She knew what that silence meant. She had heard Dean scream from the basement for weeks now—anger, pain, hatred—and she’d started to recognize the rhythm of it. The moments of silence between his roars were predictable.

This was different.

Too still.

Her gaze shot to the basement door across the room. It stood ajar.

No. No.

She hadn’t left it open. She was sure she hadn’t.

“Dean,” she whispered, though the sound barely escaped her lips. She reached for the angel blade on the nearby table with trembling fingers.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps.

Measured. Slow. No dragging of chains. No slamming of fists against walls. Not the furious pacing of a man trying to burn off madness—but the cold, calculated footsteps of someone who had made a decision.

He was coming up.

He was free.

Panic surged in her chest, thick and suffocating. Her heart thundered in her ears. Castiel was gone—he had left earlier to restock supplies and seek new chains reinforced with grace. There was no backup. No safety net.

Only her.

And him.

She backed away from the staircase, holding the blade in front of her with both hands. Her grip was weak. She didn’t want to use it. Didn’t want to believe she might have to.

Then he appeared.

Dean Winchester—or what was left of him—stood at the top of the stairs, shirt drenched in sweat and blood, wrists still shackled, chains dragging behind him like ghosts. His skin was pale, jaw clenched, shoulders broad as ever. His once-green eyes were obsidian voids now—black, unblinking, unreadable.

But his expression…

It wasn’t rage.

It was sorrow.

“Y/N,” he said.

Her name on his lips shattered her.

“Don’t,” she warned, holding the blade out between them. “Don’t come any closer.”

He stopped. He didn’t flinch. He just looked at her—really looked at her—and for a moment, it was like the years fell away.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, voice low, gravel scraping through vulnerability. “Just let me talk.”

She didn’t lower the blade, but she didn’t raise it either. Her chest was rising and falling too fast.

“Talk?” she spat. “You’ve had weeks—months—to talk. All you’ve done is scream and tear at the walls. You tried to kill Sam. You almost killed Cas.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I know what I’ve done. I remember everything. Every second. Every scream. Every time I looked at you and couldn’t feel a damn thing except the need to rip you apart.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “Then why now? Why me?”

“Because I saw you last night.” His voice cracked. “You came down there. Thought I was asleep. Sat across the room and whispered my name like it still meant something to you.”

She swallowed hard. She had done that. She thought he hadn’t noticed.

“It broke something in me,” he continued, taking a cautious step forward. “Or maybe it fixed something. I don’t know. But I heard you. And I remembered what it felt like to be... me.”

She stared at him, blade trembling.

“You don’t get to do this,” she said, barely audible. “You don’t get to claw your way out for five minutes and pretend none of it happened.”

“I’m not pretending,” he said. “I’m fighting. The demon—he's in here, yeah, and he's strong. But so am I. I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel anything. Because I do. For you.”

The words hung in the air like ash.

She shook her head slowly. “Dean…”

“I love you.”

Silence.

No thunder. No storm. Just the soft, heartbreaking truth falling between them like glass.

“I loved you before the Mark. Before Hell. Before I knew how damn dark this world could get. And even now, in this mess of black eyes and blood and pain—I still do.”

Her blade lowered an inch.

He watched her with aching reverence, like she was sunlight on winter snow.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he said. “Hell, I probably don’t deserve to even say your name anymore. But if there’s anything left of me—anything real—it’s how I feel about you.”

A tear escaped her lashes.

She stepped forward, slowly, hesitantly, until they were only inches apart.

His breath hitched.

She reached up with one trembling hand and brushed her fingertips across his cheek. His skin was warm. Real. Human. Her thumb grazed a fading cut beneath his eye.

For a split second, the black in his eyes flickered—faded—and beneath it, she saw Dean. The man she had loved. The man who had made her laugh in cheap motel rooms, who held her when the nightmares got bad, who whispered comfort in the darkest corners of the hunt.

“Dean,” she whispered, lips trembling. “You’re still in there.”

He leaned into her touch like a drowning man to the surface. “Don’t forgive me. Just… remember me. That’s all I ask.”

“I never stopped.”

They stood there, suspended in time, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air for the first time in what felt like centuries.

Then—

The sound of wings.

Castiel.

The room pulsed with divine presence, the air thickening as the angel stepped into view, sword in hand, grace flaring behind his eyes.

Dean didn’t turn. He didn’t flinch. He just pulled away from Y/N gently and exhaled like the weight of the world was finally being lifted—even if only to be replaced by chains again.

“I’m ready,” he said without looking at Cas.

Castiel’s face was unreadable. “You escaped.”

“I needed to say goodbye.”

Cas glanced at Y/N, her hand still hovering where Dean’s face had been. He nodded once, expression softening. “Then it was worth the risk.”

Dean turned to her one last time.

“Thank you. For reminding me who I was.”

Tears streamed down her face. “You’re still him. Somewhere in there, you’re still mine.”

And then Castiel stepped forward, wrapped Dean in glowing chains of grace, and vanished with him in a flutter of wings and light.

The room fell silent again.

This time, for real.

Y/N stood alone in the wreckage of her heart, the echo of Dean’s confession still ringing in her ears. Her hand dropped to her side. She stared at the empty space where he’d stood, a sob finally breaking loose from her chest.

And in that echoing emptiness, she whispered:

“I love you too.”

#jensen ackles #jensen ackled #supernatural #spn #askmishapoc #spn supernatural #supernatural spn #spn fandom #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester angst

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 3 days ago

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(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ lighthouse-for-the-lost's masterlist ♥

*IF YOU DO NOT HAVE AN AGE IN YOUR BIO-YOU WILL BE BLOCKED...MINORS DNI*

updated 7/30/25*

The Last of Us

abby anderson↓

half return

a shadow beyond doubt || part one

the last of us part iii||no light to follow|| //part one

The Boys

soldier boy↓

love me like you do//move and i'll tie you to that bed, sweetheart

darlin' don't you ever forget that i'm here for you

when we were young|| part one // part two

stairway to heaven

complex

french mistakes and the like//i notice all too well

50 shades of go fuck yourself

hallelujah, my ass *discontinued*

a broken promise

call me daddy?

dream on// the little hands that lead you to me

crochet cafe

back to the good ole' days

sweet girl

three in a row and you can get the girl|| part one // part two

all in the family//i will never stop with you

come marching home

waiting for a girl like you

silent skies: part one // part two// *discontinued*

soldier boy christmas fics↓

wishing you a merry christmas

it's a not so wonderful life

i'll be home for you after christmas

where are my manners under the mistletoe?

christmas cookies//baked with the hope you'd notice

soldier boy asmr↓

soldier boy finds you in the safehouse ft. hughie

soldier boy incorrect quotes ↓

part one

Supernatural

dean winchester↓

ceilings and plaster

in the land

dean, your majesty awaits

like father, like daughter

dental floss and whiskey

fuck your feelings

4:00 AM

perfect heart series || part one // part two

instill inside me series || fear // hurt// loneliness// comfort

tell me you love me

dean winchester headcanons↓

20 headcanons

3o more headcanons

yes i imagine

imagine

sam winchester↓

always on my mind

castiel↓

curiosity got the cas

God of War

kratos↓

ode to fimbulwinter *discontinued* || part one

heimdall↓

along the aseir wall *discontinued* || part one // part two

Transformers

rodimus prime mtmte↓

starlight in the wake

Miguel O'Hara

we are not alright || part one

i'm sorry you were forgotten

20 headcanons

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 3 days ago

Note

U probably know idk but if not heads up all of your links are broken now

Thank ❤️

#everything’s broken not lol #these links suck #ask answered

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 3 days ago

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@sl33pylilbunny

Ahhhhhhh I’m so sorrry!😭😭😭 I completely forgot about tagging people!!! Raaaah! Next time! Next time I promise!!!!

On my hands and knees, begging with tears..!! Anything more with Sweet Girl!Reader x Soldier Boy! It’s the air I breathe, the water I drink..! Your writing is absolutely phenomenal!!

Cotton Candy and Something Like Butterflies

Part One--||--Part Two

Description: You got that teddy bear...no bears to be exact and it was all to your masked crusader. However, you weren't leaving the fair until you were his. And he was going to make sure of that.

Pairings: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Soldier Boy is his own warning, language. Sweet, toothache cuteness

Note: This request is another fave and I love it so much. My heart yearns for sweet Soldier Boy. Also to add--some do not understand the idea of fan fiction and how you can ultimately change a bit of the character's personality to your liking. That is the entire idea of fan fiction. Yes I know Soldier Boy is as a whole-a butt, and is overall written as a terrible person. However, I like to think that in the presence of women- from what I have seen from small parts of the show, he had some potential to be super sweet to women.

Also...I can do what I want.

This is the final part to this series...if you want more...please send your requests!

The teddy bear was almost as tall as you...maybe taller. No scratch that—it was as tall as you. Your arms barely fit around its middle as you carried it awkwardly between game stalls, occasionally having to peek around the giant fuzzy head to avoid bumping into strangers. Every few steps, someone smiled and asked where you had won it. You could only laugh, cheeks hot.

"Oh, I didn’t. Someone won it for me." You had not stopped smiling since.

Ben—no, Soldier Boy, though he had asked you to call him Ben, had disappeared back into the thick of the fair after your brief, unexpected moment together. You had kept playing that in your mind.

The ring toss.

His arm around you.

That deep, rough, intoxicating voice calling you Princess.

You tried not to think too hard about the part where he patted your head like some kind of shy kitten. But also? You kind of loved it. And now, as you wandered closer to the Funhouse like he'd ask, dragging your bear and still tasting powdered sugar from a funnel cake you’d caved in and bought your heart palpitating with each step forward.

You never usually did things like this.

Waiting for a superhero.

Especially not him. Soldier Boy was legendary in... complicated ways. But for some reason, you were not nervous. You felt safe, in the weirdest, warmest way. When you rounded the corner, you saw him. He was leaning against a food cart, arms crossed over his chest, looking incredibly out of place among the pastel-colored balloons and carnival lights. His whole vibe screamed 1940s war drama, but there he was, squinting at a blue raspberry slush like it had personally offended him. You smiled. Couldn't help it.

His shoulders dropped, and his brows relaxed.

"Was starting to think you ditched me," he said, half-smirking.

"I got distracted," you said sheepishly, holding up the bear. "He's a little hard to travel with."

Ben nodded solemnly. "Yeah, he looks like trouble."

You laughed. He blinked, then looked away quickly—almost as if he was shy. "Hungry?" He asked, gesturing to the cart beside him. "They got corndogs, and that fried Oreo thing. Not bad."

You hesitated, then gave a small nod. "A little...but not for the corndogs or the fried Oreo..."

He smiled. "Then what do you want-"

"Funnel cake." You said abruptly.

Before you could even reach for your wallet, he had already tossed a twenty on the counter. You opened your mouth to protest, but he gave you a look that shut it right down.

"I said I wanted to win you more stuff," he grunted. "Didn't say it had to be from a booth."

The vendor handed him two funnel cakes and a soda."

Ben handed them to you like he was passing along sacred treasure.

“I… thank you,” you said quietly. You were sure your face was red.

He scratched the back of his neck, looking around like he was suddenly overwhelmed by the color and noise. Then, softly, “I don’t usually do this. Talk to people.”

You blinked. “You’re… literally a public figure.”

“Yeah, and I hate it,” he muttered.

“This.” he gestured to the two of you standing awkwardly near the food cart, surrounded by laughter and neon lights, “This is different.”

Your stomach did a funny little flip. You looked down at the corndog in your hands and smiled. “I think it’s nice.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, he shoved them into his pockets and jerked his head toward the Funhouse.

“You wanna walk?” You nodded.

The two of you wandered past spinning rides and slow-moving games. You talked a little. He asked about where you were from, and you told him. He asked if you came to the fair often, and you laughed because, really, who says that? He grumbled about the noise. You apologized like it was your fault.

“Don’t do that,” he said suddenly, stopping mid-step.

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Oh. Right. Sorry—I mean, I—” He gave you a look.

You smiled sheepishly and nodded. “Got it.”

“Good girl.” Your knees nearly gave out.

At the edge of the fairgrounds, you reached the Ferris wheel. The line was short now, most of the families having cleared out. Ben eyed it skeptically.

“I don’t trust things that spin.”

“Come on,” you said softly. “It’s slow. You can see the whole fair from the top.”

He hesitated, glancing at the creaky metal frame like it was going to launch him into orbit. You bumped your shoulder gently into his arm.

“Scared?” you teased.

His head snapped toward you. “I’m a war hero, sweetheart. I don’t get scared.”

“Then ride the Ferris wheel with me.”

He stared at you a moment longer. Then sighed, dramatically.

“Fine. But if we die, I’m blaming you.”

The Ferris wheel groaned as it started to move. The two of you sat side by side in the little metal carriage, the teddy bear wedged awkwardly between your knees. The higher you rose, the more the noise of the fair began to fall away. You weren’t afraid of heights, but the moment felt fragile somehow, like if you spoke too loudly, it might disappear.

Ben shifted beside you, the bench creaking under his weight.

“You’re different,” he said suddenly.

You looked at him, surprised.

“Most people… look at me like I’m a freak. Or like I owe ‘em something.”

“I don’t think you’re a freak,” you said quietly.

He studied you, green eyes a little too honest in the dim lights.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. But your hand, without thinking, reached across the space between you and gently touched his. He froze. Then slowly—so slowly—you felt his fingers wrap around yours. When the Ferris wheel reached the very top, you looked out.

Stars. Lights. The glowing cotton candy sky of the fair beneath your feet.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” Ben said beside you. “It is.”

You turned to look at him and found that he wasn’t looking at the lights. He was looking at you. The wind was gentle this high up. It tugged at your hair, carrying with it the smell of sugar, fried food, and salt air. Below, the lights of the fair twinkled like stars strewn across earth instead of sky. And still, he was looking at you.

Ben wasn’t grinning. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t flexing for attention or cracking a joke. His green eyes were steady, focused. You looked away first.

“People must tell you you’re charming all the time,” you said softly, trying to break the weight of it. “Even if you pretend, you’re not.”

Ben’s brows lifted slightly. “They mostly tell me I’m a jackass.”

You smiled. “That too.”

He gave a breath of a laugh—quiet and genuine. And then he said it, voice low enough it might have gotten carried off by the wind if you hadn’t been listening so closely:

“You make me feel like I ain’t some… relic.”

You turned toward him slowly. He was still watching you, but now, his gaze had dropped to your hand, where his fingers still lightly curled around yours.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’ here,” he said, voice rougher now, more vulnerable. “I don’t date. I don’t… try with people. But you—”

“I didn’t ask you to try,” you said, gently.

“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t have to.”

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs. The Ferris wheel gave a quiet groan as it reached the very top and paused, the ride halting for a moment like it knew what was happening. Ben leaned a little closer. Not sudden. Not demanding. Just… close. His shoulder brushing yours, his eyes searching your face like he was still trying to figure out if this was real or something cooked up in a coma-dream from the ‘80s.

And then, as soft as a whisper: “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded.

He leaned in.

And the kiss—wasn't what you expected. Not from Soldier Boy. It wasn’t messy or rough or rushed. It was gentle. Warm. Careful. Like you were something he wasn’t used to having but suddenly wasn’t ready to let go of. You kissed him back. And when he pulled away just a few inches, still close enough for you to feel his breath, his voice was quiet:

“You got a little powdered sugar on your lip.”

You smiled. “You could’ve just said you wanted a second kiss.”

Ben smirked. “I always want a second kiss.”

You wandered back toward the edge of the fair sometime later, the teddy bear trailing behind you in Ben’s arms now. He carried it like it was a shield, one arm slung around its belly and the other casually brushing against yours whenever your hands got too close.

“I still say it should be named after me,” he said.

You raised a brow. “We agreed on Benny. It’s a compromise.”

He grunted. “I gave you Homelander the dragon. You owe me naming rights.”

You reached into the little paper tray of leftover funnel cake and plucked one, holding it up like a peace offering.

“Call it even?”

Ben stared at the cake again, like it had personally wronged him, then leaned down and bit it out of your hand.

You squeaked, laughing. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you like it,” he said, crumbs on his mouth.

You did.

Maybe too much.

When you reached the parking lot at the far edge of the fairgrounds, the lights behind you shimmered in the night like the whole place was fading into a dream. Ben shifted the bear into one arm and turned to face you. “Where’s your car?”

You pointed a little ways down.

He nodded. “I’ll walk you.”

You didn’t argue.

At your car, it got quiet again. Not awkward. Just… soft.

Ben shifted on his feet, suddenly unsure of himself in a way you wouldn’t have believed earlier.

You reached for the bear—but he didn’t let go right away.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head.

He shrugged. “I just… I dunno.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered. “Tonight was already more than I expected.”

“I don’t want it to be the last one,” he said, blunt and honest.

You blinked up at him. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Ben gave a slow nod. Then reached into his back pocket, pulled out a pen, and—oh, God—scribbled his number on your wrist.

You laughed. “Very romantic.”

“It’s the only thing I remember how to do from the ‘80s. That and roller disco.”

You looked down at the number. He hadn’t even written “Soldier Boy.” He wrote Ben.

He watched your face, then leaned in and pressed one last kiss—shorter this time—to your forehead.

“Call me when you get home.”

“I will.”

He gave the bear one last pat on the head, handed it over to you gently, and stepped back.

“Night, Princess.”

“Night, Ben.”

You watched him walk away, boots crunching gravel, arms swinging loose at his sides like he didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders anymore. Maybe just the weight of one very happy girl and a bear named after himself. And you knew, deep down, that you were going to be thinking about this night and that kiss—for a long, long time.

#this and prev reblog can and should coexist #fic💕#jensen ackles #jensen ackled #the boys #the boys x reader #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy the boys #the boys fandom #the boys season three #the boys season 3

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 3 days ago

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Tee hee. Im so happy to write this.

The Last of Us Part III —||—No Light to Follow

Pairings: Abby Anderson x Reader ||

Description: When Abby and Lev wash ashore on the rugged, fog-drenched coast of Florence, Oregon, they expect death. Instead, they find a broken lighthouse—and someone willing to save them.

The reader, a quiet loner living in the forgotten beacon, tends to their wounds with guarded compassion. But as days turn to weeks, secrets begin to surface—about the reader’s past, about the Fireflies, and about a mission that never died. Stranded far from the remnants of their people, the reader had once tried to get to Michigan, where over 500 Fireflies had gathered to begin again. But the road was long, and the sea was unforgiving.

Now, with Abby and Lev at their side, the hope of reunion flickers once more.

Meanwhile, Ellie drifts through the ruins of what used to be herself. Haunted by everything she’s lost and everything she’s done, she sets off on a quiet journey to find Dina—and maybe, if she’s lucky, herself. But the world hasn’t grown any softer. And neither has she.

Paths intertwine in a land overgrown with decay and spiritual rot, where a fanatical cult called The Hollows thrives. Worshippers of the infected, they see Cordyceps not as a curse, but a blessing—divine, pure, and worthy of devotion. As their influence spreads across the Pacific Northwest, so too does their madness.

Love. Loss. A lighthouse. And the last flickers of faith in a world rotted to its roots.

Warnings: Language, Adult content, eventual smut. Grief, mentions of mental illness, depression, and other forms of content that may be within this fic. This is a hypothetical Part III don’t come after me please.

You have been warned.

The waves had been dangerously loud and violent all morning.

You felt it the second your bare feet touched the damp sand. The air, sticky with sea salt and fog, tasted like something sour left out too long. Mourning, metallic- like blood.

A gull screeched overhead. Not its usual shrill, irritated cry— no, this one sounded like a warning. You paused, conch shell bag slung over one shoulder, and narrowed your eyes toward the mist rolling over the surf. You were only out here for one reason: to find a new horn. The last conch you had carved had cracked on the rocks last week, just before the storm.

You blew it to feel a little less alone when the forest behind your lighthouse began to feel too alive at night. It was pink, spiral—carved and fit perfectly in your palm.

You were attached.

But this morning was not about the horn.

It was about the feeling.

You adjusted your jacket and stepped onto the packed shoreline, where the tide had begun to pull itself inward as if taking a breath right before a scream. Florence, Oregon wasn't much anymore, aside from the infected that waded through the forest and towns just beyond the lighthouse. Yet, they never dared to wander any closer due to the impact of the fall they would endure from the cliffside.

A few half standing structures, a dock eaten by barnacles and time, and a stretch of driftwood—gnarled beach that seemed to go on forever.

But it was home. You had made it one.

That was when you saw them. Two figures—lumps at first. The mist parted enough for a beam of gold morning light to slice down through the clouds and catch on the soaked fabric, broken boards and a hand. Small. Limp.

The other figure lay beside them, curled around the smaller body, a thin broken shield, seaweed tangled in their hair, sand clinging to bloodied skin and clothes. Your heart stuttered. Before you even realized, you had dropped to your knees. Running to them and sliding into the sand.

The woman—older, bigger— was unconscious, her body was twisted at an odd angle, one arm cradling the smaller figure in a way that didn't look voluntary. Protective, even in sleep. The smaller one, barely more than a teenager, was breathing shallowly. Blood crusted one of their temple cuts, and their buzzed hair had been caked with grit.

You reached for the bigger one first, your fingers to her throat. A pulse, thready and slow, but it was there.

"Hey," you rasped. "Hey, come on." No response.

You glanced around the shoreline. No boats, no movement. No sign of anyone following.

All you wanted of today was to fix your broken horn, but more surprises came to you this morning. You sighed, sprinting back to the makeshift porch of the lighthouse to pull a palette with ropes tied to it back to the people washed up on your shore.

The trek back to you shack—what you generously called home—was rough. Dragging the two on the palette had proved to be more tedious than what you had hoped for. The teen was most likely light enough to drag on their own, but most of the weight came from the older woman. She was heavy, dense with muscle and pain and history you didn't understand yet.

You dragged the two the last hundred feet, groaning softly under your breath. The older one, made a barely audible groan, but didn't wake.

Your place was tucked back near the tree line, built into the hallowed base of a long dead lighthouse. It was weathered and crooked, reeking of old smoke, but the roof didn't leak and everything—including the power—still worked if you were patient enough with the generator.

You laid the kid one of the cots tucked in the corner first. Then the woman. Stripped their wet clothes, checked for open wounds, bandaged what you could, and started a fire with trembling fingers. Only when they were covered in your spare blankets and breathing steadier did you allow yourself to sit.

You stared, even now, unconscious, the woman looked as if she'd been to war and back again. Thick arms, littered with scars, infected cuts from a custom blade...this woman seen way more than what you knew. Rope burns around her wrists, bruises blooming down one side of her ribs like spilled ink.

You should have been afraid.

You weren't.

Not yet.

Hours passed as you boiled water in a kettle, stitching what you could, cleaning salt crust from the kid's face with a washcloth and a warm soap bucket. Music, something from your instrumental collection, nothing too loud played in the background. They didn't stir once, not until nightfall.

While you were frying fish in the kitchen you built, the woman gasped awake. It was quiet, sharp and inward. Her whole body spasmed, then locked, eyes flying open and hands instantly curling into fists. She lunged forward—and collapsed with a choaked huff onto the wooden floor, pain flashing across her face.

You whipped around so fast, taking the food off of the stovetop. Immediately, you had sprung to her side.

"Whoa there, you're safe." You gripped her arms softly, moving her back to the cot.

Her eyes—sea glass green, you realized—focused on you like a blade. Wide and wild. She didn't speak.

"You both washed up on the beach this morning. You were barely breathing." Nothing.

"I was afraid for the kiddo for a while," her gaze flicked to the cot across the room. Relief broke across her face, and she relaxed.

"Lev," Her voice hoarse, croaked out.

"Is that his name?"

She nodded once. Her voice, when it came again, was wrecked. "Is he okay?"

"He's sleeping. Had some minor bumps and bruises, some cuts. But breathing steady. Like a rock. Didn't even twitch when I stitched him up." The woman relaxed even more. Barely. Then her head dropped back against the pillow, and for the first time, you saw her expression for what it was: grief.

You noticed how her hair was chopped unevenly. As if someone had done it to her. Or she had done it herself.

"I'm not going to hurt you." You said gently, standing back up to go back to cooking. "I don't know who you are, or what happened, but you're safe here." The woman didn't respond, simply just stared at the ceiling. Her fingers flexed against the blanket like she missed holding a weapon.

"I hope you like seafood. I made fried fish and hushpuppies, there's also some fresh jam and bread for dessert if you want any." She still didn't answer. But she watched you as you made a plate for the two of you and put away the rest for when Lev woke up.

"I'm Y/N..." you stated, "It's only me here if you're worried about that. I live alone."

That got a twitch in her brow. "Why?"

You shrugged. "That's the way it has always been."

Handing her a plate, you pulled up a chair beside the open hot plate. The kettle whistled softly. You poured her a cup of broth and set it on the stool beside her, not pushing it into her hands.

"What is your name?"

A beat.

Then quietly: "Abby."

You nodded. "Nice to meet you Abby."

Lev awoke in the middle of the night screaming. You were out back gathering firewood when you heard it—high-pitched, raw, echoing through the lighthouse like a howl of something feral. You dropped everything and sprinted inside.

Abby was already at his side, holding him, whispering something low and fast that you could barely hear them. He clung to her tightly, afraid that he might lose her once more. Stepping back, you didn't speak, only giving them the space they needed.

Eventually, he looked up. Dark eyes, glassy with fever. Confused. Scared.

"Where are we?" he whispered.

Abby didn't answer, but you did.

"You're in Florence, Oregon. Washed up on my shore in bad shape. You're okay. I found you."

Lev blinked at you. "You're not with the Rattlers," he said. It wasn't a question.

You frowned. "That what now?"

Abby's jaw clenched, she pulled Lev tighter.

"No," you said honestly. "I don't know who they are."

He studied you for a long-time moment, then nodded.

"Okay."

Just like that. Okay.

You didn't know what they had been through, but you saw it in their eyes, they were running from something. Or someone. And if they washed up here, then maybe they finally will have a chance to live again.

The next morning, the sea was quieter. Not calm, the ocean never really calmed—it just shifted its mood into something more somber. Slow, heavy waves licked the edge of the beach in a hush hush rhythm you desperately had waited for the past week due to the raging storms.

You understood this feeling.

The sky was a pale lavender bruise, graying into slate as the sun struggled to rise. You pulled your jacket tighter around you and slung the netted pouch over one shoulder. the strap dug into your collarbone in a familiar way, like routine carving itself into the dent of your clavicle.

Behind you, the lighthouse whispered with wood creaks and stove pops. You'd left a note on the counter for Abby and Lev. Nothing fancy. Just:

'Gone shell hunting. If you're hungry, there is bread and jam in the cabinet, and some jerky in a tin under the stove. Water is in the blue jug. Don't open the cellar door, there aren't any stairs and you'll die. Be back soon. '

—Y/N

You didn't know if they would read it. Or if they would still be there when you got back. But you went to the beach anyway.

The tide had gone out overnight, dragging seaweed and shattered driftwood across the sand like some salty god had tried to paint in a fit of rage. The landscape looked different from yesterday. Or maybe you did.

You scanned the sandbars, boots crunching over broken shells and damp grit. You knew what you were looking for. A large, spiral-shaped, with a hollow curve and a sharp enough tip that you could carve the mouthpiece without cracking it. Your last conch had lasted a year. You wanted this one to last longer.

A few gulls watched you from a bent streetlight lodged halfway into the dunes. One squawked at you, but you ignored them. You always did. You were used to the ghosts, and birds were just like them, without the clothing.

Ghosts are what took you friends away.

Your family.

You shook your head and regained your composure. After fifteen minutes, you spotted something half-buried by the rocks.

A shell.

Not perfect—but promising. Pale peach, speckled with ochre freckles, edges chipped but still proved functional. You crouched and dug it out with your gloved hands. It was heavier than it looked. The spiral was tight, the ridges worn smooth by time. You held it up to your ear instinctively.

They said you could hear the ocean in a conch shell. What you heard instead was silence. No, not silence. Breath. Slow, shallow and steady. Behind you. You stood fast, pivoting.

Abby.

Still limping, her leg broken, still wrapped in one of your threadbare wool blankets like a bruised titan who didn't know how to rest. She wasn't holding a weapon, but her shoulders tensed expecting a fight anyway.

"You shouldn't be walking." you said.

She shrugged with one shoulder, the other too stiff to move. "Lev's still asleep. I didn't want to wake him."

You tightened your grip around the shell. "You don't trust me."

It wasn't an accusation, just a fact.

"I don't trust anyone," she replied.

You hummed, tossing the conch shell into your bag. "Fair."

A moment passed between you, fog curling between words unsaid. Wind lifted strands of hair, dropping them again. She didn't move closer, but she didn't leave either.

"What's that?" she asked, nodding towards your bag.

"Shells." you told her. "I use them either for arrows, but mainly I carved them for horns." There was a pause before you added, "Used to be ceremonial, for warnings. Territory signals. It scares people when they hear that coming from out of nowhere." you laughed.

Slowly and tiredly, Abby blinked. "You hunt for them?"

"Sort of. Florence doesn't have much to offer, but the sea still gives up its treasures. You just have to know where to look."

Abby glanced out at the waves, then back at you.

"You live out here alone?"

You gave her a half-smile. "You already asked me that."

"Still trying to understand why."

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you turned back to the sand and began to search for more shells. Abby limped behind you, watching your every move, before you knew it you pointed out for her to sit and dig around for anything of use.

"Ah, yes. This one's perfect!" You chimed spinning around with a nice sized conch.

You then walked over to a flat patch of sand next to Abby, sitting down, legs crossed. Held the conch in your lap like something sacred. After a few seconds you looked up at her.

"There's something about being the only heartbeat for miles," you said quietly. "No one telling you how to survive. No one demanding penance for mistakes you don't remember making."

Abby looked down.

You continued.

"The silence makes you realize, the world is so much bigger than we know." Abby didn't speak, but her hands twitched at her sides. You could feel the weight of her unspoken story pressing against the moment.

Eventually, she scooted closer and sank into the sand beside you with a grunt. You didn't move. Side my side now. Close but not touching. She stared at the conch like it held the answer she was looking for.

"It's strange," She murmured. " I used to live surrounded by people. Soldiers. Scientists. Friends. Then enemies. Then...nothing. Just Lev."

You looked at her sideways. Her face was drawn in the morning light, lines around her eyes deeper than someone her age should carry.

"Who is he to you?" you asked curiously.

"He's all I have left." she answered just above a whisper. The sentence cut deeper than you expected.

You nodded slowly. "Well...if you two need somewhere to exist for a while. I have the space." Her head turned sharply toward you.

"Why would you offer that?"

You shrugged once more. "I don't know...the seagulls don't give me much company to work with."

Abby let out a rough, sandpaper laugh. It wasn't quite joy, but it was better than her silence. You stood up again and dusted off your pants.

"I've got carving tools back at the shack," You said. "You wanna come watch me turn this into a warning horn?"

Abby raised a furrowed brow. "Seriously?"

You held the shell up like a trophy.

"Dead serious." She shook her head but stood up wobbly. Together, you both started walking back across the sand.

By the time you reached the lighthouse again, Lev was sitting upright on the cot, holding the note like it was a scroll from some ancient civilization. His eyes widened when he saw Abby beside you.

"You're okay," He breathed.

"I'm okay." Abby echoed.

You were now the one to raise an eyebrow. "You hungry?"

Lev looked at you, the Abby. "She didn't try to kill you?"

"Nope."

"Then yeah. Starving."

You spent the rest of the morning drying fish and wrapping it in cheese cloth while Abby watched from the porch, blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. You didn't ask where they came from, nor why Abby flinched anytime you came remotely close to her, or even why Lev was staring at your cellar door like he expected something to claw it's way out. You didn't ask them anything.

You let them live. And with them learning how to live again. They would thrive. You just worked. Cleaned and cooked. Carved the conch horn slowly by the heater, rasping your knife along the spiral until it broke off evenly. Soon, a week went by and Lev had fallen asleep again after lunch, curled into a nest of your old coats. Abby didn't move far from him, but eventually she sat beside you on the step of the lighthouse.

"You gonna teach me how to carve one of those?" she asked pointing at your shell.

You snorted. "You want to learn?"

"I want to stop thinking."

You shook your head at her answer, a smile forming at the ends of your mouth.

"You're going to have to find your own shell...and until then. You're going to have to let that leg of yours heal properly."

Abby rolled her eyes and looked away from you. You then pinched the bridge of your nose.

"And with healing, comes the need to heal your hygiene regimen. Take a bath. I can run you one."

Abby scoffed and made a face of annoyance. While you cracked a smile and stood up, reaching out to help her stand.

"While you both were sleeping, I had the opportunity to get you both some clean clothes. But with that attitude...maybe I'll let you freeze." Abby hummed, her eyes trained on you with that same look.

Somewhere, you felt a little warmer in the chilling air near the sea.

--------

The door didn't shut behind her.

It hung open, just a crack, the wind catching it as she stepped off the porch and into the tall grass. The same porch she'd stood with Dina, watching the wheat bend. Where she rocked JJ in her arms and pretended—for a while—that love could outlast the trauma she endured.

Her guitar was gone, left leaning by the window, missing strings. Like her. The dirt road crunched beneath her boots, the late autumn air biting through her jacket. A hawk cried out sharply across the valley. She tightened her grip on the strap of her pack, empty except for a half used bandaged, a lighter and a photograph of Joel she hadn’t meant to keep. The scar tissue in her hand ached where her fingers used to be. She didn't flex them.

Not anymore.

She just moved. Forward, away. From the house. From Jackson. From Dina.

From whom she had been when the world still felt like it could forgive her. The guilt didn't howl anymore, it just pressed, constant and dull. She had thought after all of this she could still return home to find Dina and JJ waiting for her. But Dina's warning she wouldn't wait for her echoed through Ellie's mind as she pushed forward.

But Ellie had walked away from Abby.

And still, nothing clicked.

She camped that night beneath a broken-down billboard twenty miles out. The stars were shy behind the clouds, and her fire barely warmed her fingers. She didn’t eat. Just sat. Looking at the picture. Joel, laughing. Her younger self caught mid-eyeroll. That version of her felt like a story someone else had told. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, morning had already started bleeding through the trees.

And so Ellie began to wander once more. With her empty pack, loose memories, and nowhere to call home.

-------

To be continued.

#abby anderson x oc tlou2 #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson tlou2 #abby anderson x reader #tlou 2 x reader #abby anderson tlou2 x reader #tlou fanfic #lesbian #lgbtq #lgbtq fanfiction #the last of us fandom #imma get back to writing #this is what happens when you give me the space to write #Abby Anderson

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 3 days ago

Note

On my hands and knees, begging with tears..!! Anything more with Sweet Girl!Reader x Soldier Boy! It’s the air I breathe, the water I drink..! Your writing is absolutely phenomenal!!

Cotton Candy and Something Like Butterflies

Part One--||--Part Two

Description: You got that teddy bear...no bears to be exact and it was all to your masked crusader. However, you weren't leaving the fair until you were his. And he was going to make sure of that.

Pairings: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Soldier Boy is his own warning, language. Sweet, toothache cuteness

Also...I can do what I want.

This is the final part to this series...if you want more...please send your requests!

"Oh, I didn’t. Someone won it for me." You had not stopped smiling since.

Ben—no, Soldier Boy, though he had asked you to call him Ben, had disappeared back into the thick of the fair after your brief, unexpected moment together. You had kept playing that in your mind.

The ring toss.

His arm around you.

That deep, rough, intoxicating voice calling you Princess.

You never usually did things like this.

Waiting for a superhero.

His shoulders dropped, and his brows relaxed.

"Was starting to think you ditched me," he said, half-smirking.

"I got distracted," you said sheepishly, holding up the bear. "He's a little hard to travel with."

Ben nodded solemnly. "Yeah, he looks like trouble."

You laughed. He blinked, then looked away quickly—almost as if he was shy. "Hungry?" He asked, gesturing to the cart beside him. "They got corndogs, and that fried Oreo thing. Not bad."

You hesitated, then gave a small nod. "A little...but not for the corndogs or the fried Oreo..."

He smiled. "Then what do you want-"

"Funnel cake." You said abruptly.

Before you could even reach for your wallet, he had already tossed a twenty on the counter. You opened your mouth to protest, but he gave you a look that shut it right down.

"I said I wanted to win you more stuff," he grunted. "Didn't say it had to be from a booth."

The vendor handed him two funnel cakes and a soda."

Ben handed them to you like he was passing along sacred treasure.

“I… thank you,” you said quietly. You were sure your face was red.

He scratched the back of his neck, looking around like he was suddenly overwhelmed by the color and noise. Then, softly, “I don’t usually do this. Talk to people.”

You blinked. “You’re… literally a public figure.”

“Yeah, and I hate it,” he muttered.

“This.” he gestured to the two of you standing awkwardly near the food cart, surrounded by laughter and neon lights, “This is different.”

Your stomach did a funny little flip. You looked down at the corndog in your hands and smiled. “I think it’s nice.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, he shoved them into his pockets and jerked his head toward the Funhouse.

“You wanna walk?” You nodded.

“Don’t do that,” he said suddenly, stopping mid-step.

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Oh. Right. Sorry—I mean, I—” He gave you a look.

You smiled sheepishly and nodded. “Got it.”

“Good girl.” Your knees nearly gave out.

At the edge of the fairgrounds, you reached the Ferris wheel. The line was short now, most of the families having cleared out. Ben eyed it skeptically.

“I don’t trust things that spin.”

“Come on,” you said softly. “It’s slow. You can see the whole fair from the top.”

He hesitated, glancing at the creaky metal frame like it was going to launch him into orbit. You bumped your shoulder gently into his arm.

“Scared?” you teased.

His head snapped toward you. “I’m a war hero, sweetheart. I don’t get scared.”

“Then ride the Ferris wheel with me.”

He stared at you a moment longer. Then sighed, dramatically.

“Fine. But if we die, I’m blaming you.”

Ben shifted beside you, the bench creaking under his weight.

“You’re different,” he said suddenly.

You looked at him, surprised.

“Most people… look at me like I’m a freak. Or like I owe ‘em something.”

“I don’t think you’re a freak,” you said quietly.

He studied you, green eyes a little too honest in the dim lights.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the problem.”

Stars. Lights. The glowing cotton candy sky of the fair beneath your feet.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” Ben said beside you. “It is.”

Ben wasn’t grinning. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t flexing for attention or cracking a joke. His green eyes were steady, focused. You looked away first.

“People must tell you you’re charming all the time,” you said softly, trying to break the weight of it. “Even if you pretend, you’re not.”

Ben’s brows lifted slightly. “They mostly tell me I’m a jackass.”

You smiled. “That too.”

He gave a breath of a laugh—quiet and genuine. And then he said it, voice low enough it might have gotten carried off by the wind if you hadn’t been listening so closely:

“You make me feel like I ain’t some… relic.”

You turned toward him slowly. He was still watching you, but now, his gaze had dropped to your hand, where his fingers still lightly curled around yours.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’ here,” he said, voice rougher now, more vulnerable. “I don’t date. I don’t… try with people. But you—”

“I didn’t ask you to try,” you said, gently.

“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t have to.”

And then, as soft as a whisper: “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded.

He leaned in.

“You got a little powdered sugar on your lip.”

You smiled. “You could’ve just said you wanted a second kiss.”

Ben smirked. “I always want a second kiss.”

“I still say it should be named after me,” he said.

You raised a brow. “We agreed on Benny. It’s a compromise.”

He grunted. “I gave you Homelander the dragon. You owe me naming rights.”

You reached into the little paper tray of leftover funnel cake and plucked one, holding it up like a peace offering.

“Call it even?”

Ben stared at the cake again, like it had personally wronged him, then leaned down and bit it out of your hand.

You squeaked, laughing. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you like it,” he said, crumbs on his mouth.

You did.

Maybe too much.

You pointed a little ways down.

He nodded. “I’ll walk you.”

You didn’t argue.

At your car, it got quiet again. Not awkward. Just… soft.

Ben shifted on his feet, suddenly unsure of himself in a way you wouldn’t have believed earlier.

You reached for the bear—but he didn’t let go right away.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head.

He shrugged. “I just… I dunno.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered. “Tonight was already more than I expected.”

“I don’t want it to be the last one,” he said, blunt and honest.

You blinked up at him. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Ben gave a slow nod. Then reached into his back pocket, pulled out a pen, and—oh, God—scribbled his number on your wrist.

You laughed. “Very romantic.”

“It’s the only thing I remember how to do from the ‘80s. That and roller disco.”

You looked down at the number. He hadn’t even written “Soldier Boy.” He wrote Ben.

He watched your face, then leaned in and pressed one last kiss—shorter this time—to your forehead.

“Call me when you get home.”

“I will.”

He gave the bear one last pat on the head, handed it over to you gently, and stepped back.

“Night, Princess.”

“Night, Ben.”

#jensen ackles #jensen ackled #the boys #the boys x reader #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy the boys #the boys fandom #the boys season three #the boys season 3 #soldier boy fic #soldier boy x you #soldier boy #soldier boy x female reader #ask answered #please send requests #im taking requests #please #im losing my shit

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 6 days ago

Text

The Last of Us Part III —||—No Light to Follow

Pairings: Abby Anderson x Reader ||

Description: When Abby and Lev wash ashore on the rugged, fog-drenched coast of Florence, Oregon, they expect death. Instead, they find a broken lighthouse—and someone willing to save them.

Now, with Abby and Lev at their side, the hope of reunion flickers once more.

Love. Loss. A lighthouse. And the last flickers of faith in a world rotted to its roots.

You have been warned.

The waves had been dangerously loud and violent all morning.

You felt it the second your bare feet touched the damp sand. The air, sticky with sea salt and fog, tasted like something sour left out too long. Mourning, metallic- like blood.

You blew it to feel a little less alone when the forest behind your lighthouse began to feel too alive at night. It was pink, spiral—carved and fit perfectly in your palm.

You were attached.

But this morning was not about the horn.

It was about the feeling.

A few half standing structures, a dock eaten by barnacles and time, and a stretch of driftwood—gnarled beach that seemed to go on forever.

But it was home. You had made it one.

You reached for the bigger one first, your fingers to her throat. A pulse, thready and slow, but it was there.

"Hey," you rasped. "Hey, come on." No response.

You glanced around the shoreline. No boats, no movement. No sign of anyone following.

You dragged the two the last hundred feet, groaning softly under your breath. The older one, made a barely audible groan, but didn't wake.

You should have been afraid.

You weren't.

Not yet.

You whipped around so fast, taking the food off of the stovetop. Immediately, you had sprung to her side.

"Whoa there, you're safe." You gripped her arms softly, moving her back to the cot.

Her eyes—sea glass green, you realized—focused on you like a blade. Wide and wild. She didn't speak.

"You both washed up on the beach this morning. You were barely breathing." Nothing.

"I was afraid for the kiddo for a while," her gaze flicked to the cot across the room. Relief broke across her face, and she relaxed.

"Lev," Her voice hoarse, croaked out.

"Is that his name?"

She nodded once. Her voice, when it came again, was wrecked. "Is he okay?"

You noticed how her hair was chopped unevenly. As if someone had done it to her. Or she had done it herself.

"I'm Y/N..." you stated, "It's only me here if you're worried about that. I live alone."

That got a twitch in her brow. "Why?"

You shrugged. "That's the way it has always been."

Handing her a plate, you pulled up a chair beside the open hot plate. The kettle whistled softly. You poured her a cup of broth and set it on the stool beside her, not pushing it into her hands.

"What is your name?"

A beat.

Then quietly: "Abby."

You nodded. "Nice to meet you Abby."

Eventually, he looked up. Dark eyes, glassy with fever. Confused. Scared.

"Where are we?" he whispered.

Abby didn't answer, but you did.

"You're in Florence, Oregon. Washed up on my shore in bad shape. You're okay. I found you."

Lev blinked at you. "You're not with the Rattlers," he said. It wasn't a question.

You frowned. "That what now?"

Abby's jaw clenched, she pulled Lev tighter.

"No," you said honestly. "I don't know who they are."

He studied you for a long-time moment, then nodded.

"Okay."

Just like that. Okay.

You understood this feeling.

Behind you, the lighthouse whispered with wood creaks and stove pops. You'd left a note on the counter for Abby and Lev. Nothing fancy. Just:

—Y/N

You didn't know if they would read it. Or if they would still be there when you got back. But you went to the beach anyway.

Ghosts are what took you friends away.

Your family.

You shook your head and regained your composure. After fifteen minutes, you spotted something half-buried by the rocks.

A shell.

They said you could hear the ocean in a conch shell. What you heard instead was silence. No, not silence. Breath. Slow, shallow and steady. Behind you. You stood fast, pivoting.

Abby.

"You shouldn't be walking." you said.

She shrugged with one shoulder, the other too stiff to move. "Lev's still asleep. I didn't want to wake him."

You tightened your grip around the shell. "You don't trust me."

It wasn't an accusation, just a fact.

"I don't trust anyone," she replied.

You hummed, tossing the conch shell into your bag. "Fair."

A moment passed between you, fog curling between words unsaid. Wind lifted strands of hair, dropping them again. She didn't move closer, but she didn't leave either.

"What's that?" she asked, nodding towards your bag.

Slowly and tiredly, Abby blinked. "You hunt for them?"

"Sort of. Florence doesn't have much to offer, but the sea still gives up its treasures. You just have to know where to look."

Abby glanced out at the waves, then back at you.

"You live out here alone?"

You gave her a half-smile. "You already asked me that."

"Still trying to understand why."

"Ah, yes. This one's perfect!" You chimed spinning around with a nice sized conch.

You then walked over to a flat patch of sand next to Abby, sitting down, legs crossed. Held the conch in your lap like something sacred. After a few seconds you looked up at her.

"There's something about being the only heartbeat for miles," you said quietly. "No one telling you how to survive. No one demanding penance for mistakes you don't remember making."

Abby looked down.

You continued.

"It's strange," She murmured. " I used to live surrounded by people. Soldiers. Scientists. Friends. Then enemies. Then...nothing. Just Lev."

You looked at her sideways. Her face was drawn in the morning light, lines around her eyes deeper than someone her age should carry.

"Who is he to you?" you asked curiously.

"He's all I have left." she answered just above a whisper. The sentence cut deeper than you expected.

You nodded slowly. "Well...if you two need somewhere to exist for a while. I have the space." Her head turned sharply toward you.

"Why would you offer that?"

You shrugged once more. "I don't know...the seagulls don't give me much company to work with."

Abby let out a rough, sandpaper laugh. It wasn't quite joy, but it was better than her silence. You stood up again and dusted off your pants.

"I've got carving tools back at the shack," You said. "You wanna come watch me turn this into a warning horn?"

Abby raised a furrowed brow. "Seriously?"

You held the shell up like a trophy.

"Dead serious." She shook her head but stood up wobbly. Together, you both started walking back across the sand.

By the time you reached the lighthouse again, Lev was sitting upright on the cot, holding the note like it was a scroll from some ancient civilization. His eyes widened when he saw Abby beside you.

"You're okay," He breathed.

"I'm okay." Abby echoed.

You were now the one to raise an eyebrow. "You hungry?"

Lev looked at you, the Abby. "She didn't try to kill you?"

"Nope."

"Then yeah. Starving."

"You gonna teach me how to carve one of those?" she asked pointing at your shell.

You snorted. "You want to learn?"

"I want to stop thinking."

You shook your head at her answer, a smile forming at the ends of your mouth.

"You're going to have to find your own shell...and until then. You're going to have to let that leg of yours heal properly."

Abby rolled her eyes and looked away from you. You then pinched the bridge of your nose.

"And with healing, comes the need to heal your hygiene regimen. Take a bath. I can run you one."

Abby scoffed and made a face of annoyance. While you cracked a smile and stood up, reaching out to help her stand.

"While you both were sleeping, I had the opportunity to get you both some clean clothes. But with that attitude...maybe I'll let you freeze." Abby hummed, her eyes trained on you with that same look.

Somewhere, you felt a little warmer in the chilling air near the sea.

--------

The door didn't shut behind her.

Not anymore.

She just moved. Forward, away. From the house. From Jackson. From Dina.

But Ellie had walked away from Abby.

And still, nothing clicked.

And so Ellie began to wander once more. With her empty pack, loose memories, and nowhere to call home.

-------

To be continued.

#abby anderson x oc tlou2 #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson tlou2 #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson tlou2 x reader #tlou 2 x reader #tlou fanfic #lesbian #lgbtq #lgbtq fanfiction #the last of us fandom #imma get back to writing #this is what happens when you give me the space to write #Abby Anderson

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 10 days ago

Text

pairings: abby anderson x reader

genre: angst

description: there was only so much you could do to ease the pain that settled in your heart, when you finally realized that the person you loved was not the same person you fell in love with.

warnings: language, alcohol use, me being very sad while writing this, death, implications of suicide...

you have been warned

shadow, shadow what a show

every other step, there's a cross-eyed crow

half return-half return

You were invisible. Or at least to her you were. To everyone else, you were someone who could be trusted. Someone who they could go to if they needed advice, a place to go if they were overwhelmed, or if they needed a meal that felt like home.

You could whip up some of the best dishes with whatever was given to you. You were a gift to the Washington Liberation Front; even Issac came to you every now and then to discuss his private matters with you. He knew he could trust you with anything.

That wasn't the point of why you were sitting in your room with your face buried in your pillow, sobbing the day away. You were heartbroken. Heartbroken, because you knew that you would never be more than just another body to Abby Anderson. Someone easily forgotten.

That tormented you.

minneapolis soft white snow

thirty-five bridge, hometown

half return, half return

You remembered the first day you were found by the Wolves. The long trek from Minnesota to Washington just to step foot in Seattle and find out that it was worse here, than to your prior living state.

You showed up to the FOB during one of the worst storms holding your cat, Frank, so tightly to your chest that you thought you both were going to perish.

You had been wandering Seattle trying to find some semblance of life, or anyone you knew before. To your dismay, you didn't know anyone. But eventually the WLF came to love you and your furry feline friend.

standing in the yard, dressed like a kid

the house is white and the lawn is dead

they lawn is dead, the lawn is dead

Afterwards, life in the WLF became your home and every day routine. Making so many friends with Mel, Nora, Manny and Juniper, you felt at peace.

The girls would come up to your room often to enjoy dinner with you, and talk until the sun came up, while Manny and you would partake in new anime that you so happened to come across when you were put on a supply run.

Supply runs for you were rare, but you were able to go out of the FOB when permitted. It was one of the latter runs when you first met Abby. Well, you already knew who she was, but this was the first time you were ever truly around her.

She, Manny, Owen, Mel and you were put together for a supply run in a surrounding neighborhood to gather whatever you guys could find that was useful.

Although Abby, Owen and Manny would rather be on hunting missions or stakeouts, you and Mel didn't mind looking for things that would be useful.

If anything, it gave the two of you some peace and quiet while the others bickered to each other elsewhere.

The neighborhood was more of a suburban area, all white houses with similar roof styles. Some caved in, some uninhabitable and not worth looking through.

Abby, Owen and Manny were searching in the houses across from you, while you and Mel were scouring the houses on the other side.

"Hey y/n I'm going to go ahead and look at 2042, why don't you check out 2044?" Mel asked with a faint smile.

You nodded, parting ways as you watched as she disappeared into the house. Taking your time, you walked up the path to 2044, and up to the porch.

This house was a little different than the other houses. There were kid's drawings, pasted to the windows and a worn sign that read: "Welcome to Our Happy Family" hung on the front door.

You felt your hear ache a little more as you reached for the doorknob to open it. A pungent smell overtook your senses as you held your hand up to try and mask the horrible scent.

'Something must have died in here, hopefully it's just an animal," you thought taking a step inside.

During your search of the first floor of the house, you found a couple cans of pudding, some candy sealed away in a butter cookie container, and some medications.

The second floor seemed to hold a lot more. Clothes and shoes both in children's sizes and adult sizes, books you wanted to read, unopened bottles of shampoo and conditioner, movies you hadn't seen, and some still intact copies of Sailor Moon.

You were happy with your finds at least, until you reached the room at the end of the hallway.

The smell had become worse the closer you reached the door at the end of the hall. You coughed, the air so thick that you pulled out your mask just to be able to try and push out the smell. When you opened it, it opened to a set of stairs.

It must have been to the attic. Putting down your bags of things, you took a step forward and ascended the staircase.

What you saw in the attic made your face turn white as a ghost. There was nothing that could prepare you for what you would see. And now before you lied a gruesome scene.

Four bodies, two adult and two children were all laying together, bullet wounds to the head. These people died here. They killed themselves...your eyes fell to the floor and in large, chalky text was written: "God Forgive Us"

Your stomach flipped at least a hundred times before you practically tripped down the stairs, falling face first onto the wooden floor. The others had finished their search and had come to find you as you ran past them and out the door with your stuff.

Mel followed after you, alongside Owen as you threw up in the grass, and shook violently. Manny exchanged looks with Abby as she rolled her eyes. Manny shook his head and ascended the staircase to see what spooked you.

"Are you okay?" Mel rubbed your back in soft circles. You shook your head, as Manny hurried out to check on you, Abby crossed her arms and leaned against the post watching the other three comforting you.

illinois toll road, indiana plain

roll the windows down, shoot out the change

half return, half return

The truck ride back was exhausting as you were silent almost the entire way back to base. Until Abby's voice pierced through the silence.

"What, you gonna give ‘em a funeral? They’re strangers. They were dead before you got here. You mourning them doesn’t make you noble — just stupid." Mel and Owen's eyes shot up, then Manny had stood up for you.

"What y/n saw and how they reacted is normal. Any of us would have reacted the same way." Manny gave Abby a hard nudge, as she looked away from you.

This was how it was between you and her at the beginning. A feeling between annoyance and shame.

honey in your mouth when you gave me my name

tears in your eyes when you pull it like a chain

half return, half return

Then came the slow, one-sided burn, of you slowing falling in love with Abby.

The way she would miraculously show up at your door when she needed "advice" which was more along the lines of listening to her rant about Owen and Mel while drinking an entire bottle of Mezcal by herself alone.

"I hate the way he looks at her. He never looked at me like that?!" she would cry in a whisper.

Her eyes reddened by not only her tears but also by the way she would rub them. It was sad to watch her be like this, and she trusted you to let you see this side of her.

Did she normally say mean things to you from time to time - yes. Did you care? No.

"I think it's best to not react to that Abs. I think it’s just the alcohol talking." You replied to her, reaching out to brush your fingers over hers. She sniffled in between hiccups and sobs.

"But what if I can't. Why do I have to suffer and watch as he dates our friend?" You sigh and wipe her tears with a tissue.

"Abs, you broke up with him. He's happy. You should be happy too. There are so many people who love you." You smiled at her, as she snorted and pushed your hand away.

"Uh-huh, yeah right who Honey?" Honey. The nickname she gave you after the honey incident with the bees that left Manny terrified to ever cross you again.

Before you could even answer she was already beginning to sway and pass out on your bedroom floor.

You would then cover her with the extra comforter and pillow you kept for her, before your retreated to your own bed.

This would happen so much, that it became your routine. She would come by, cry, or talk, and even started to come by more often when Nora or even Manny on your guys' anime nights.

Soon it was something you began to crave more and more until finally...you caved.

standing in the yard, dressed like a kid

the house is white but the lawn is dead

the lawn is dead, the lawn is dead.

"Abs, I love you." if a record could scratch in this moment, it would have. She had come back to drink and sob in your room, when you blurted out your confession to her.

She stumbled over her words, before just standing up and leaving entirely. You tried to follow after her, but she had already disappeared in a blink of an eye. And left you sobbing into your pillow.

You felt like a lovesick child. Some teenage girl in those romcom movies you loved so much who were crying over a boy they liked.

You screamed and threw your pillow to the floor as you tossed in your bed for the rest of the night, hating yourself more and more.

half return, half return

dusty swing set take me for a ride

After that night, Abby ignored you, avoided you in the hallways. She took on more missions, and scouting openings to make sure you both never crossed paths, something that made you feel even worse.

And the more it happened, the more withdrawn you became. You stopped caring; never leaving your room unless it was to eat, or to shower.

When your friends would try to stop by, you didn't answer the door. But they did leave little care gifts for you to try and cheer you up.

You felt useless, unwanted.

You wanted to leave.

Manny, Mel, Owen, and Nora eventually intervened in the situation when Nora practically kicked down your door and demanded you tell her what was wrong.

And after some wine and sad chocolate chips you told her. The four of them confronted Abby about it, which was not what you wanted.

So here Abby was, banging on your door, frustrated and wanted to now confront you about it.

She didn't know how she felt about you. You sort of flung this onto her without warning.

She didn't want to run away, but it was the only way to have some time to think, and she did feel the same way but her feelings were a bit confusing.

The more she banged on your door, the more worried she became when you did not answer.

She had retreated to find one of the others, and with all of them standing as Manny picked the lock.

To their horror, they saw your room had been cleaned and now laid empty.

push me up and down, take me for a ride

"Issac, y/n is gone. Do you know where they went? Their room is completely empty?" Abby stood in Issac's office.

"Word travels fast here." He replied, sitting at the table eating slices of an apple from the greenhouse. "They asked to leave. So, I gave her a truck, and they left."

"What? Why?" Abby retorted, trying to grasp the sudden news.

"Y/N felt that she needed to find herself. And even though we are amidst a war with the Seraphites. I want what's best for my people. And Y/N is my people." Issac's words left a scar on Abby's heart as she turned away from him.

"Do you know where she's headed?" Her question made the air feel much more warm and sweat with awkwardness.

Issac leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed. "My best guess is wherever she's from." He told her before shooing her away to go over plans with someone.

standing in the yard, dressed like a kid

the house is white

You had made it back to your home in Minnesota within a couple days. Your home was in the middle of nowhere, the only house in the middle of a corn field, a little white house tucked away where no one could really see it unless they were close enough.

You stumbled past the gate, after taking the time to park close enough to unload what little belongings you had, and the stockpile of food you collected over the past few days.

Issac was kind enough to gift you a truck, a couple guns, ammo, supplies and food to last you a couple months. And you were relieved when nothing happened nor running into anyone or anything on your way back here.

You could live in peace in this little white house again. Make it yours again. Start a life here, again.

You could live here and forget about the Wolves, and Abby. Although you missed your friends dearly.

It was for the best. You didn't want to feel like a burden or be made to feel like you weren't allowed to be loved. It was something you needed to do.

Over the next few months alone, you turned your little white house into a working homestead. Planted a garden, started a farm, found livestock from a neighboring rundown farm about 20 miles away, hauling the two cows, ten chickens and the sheep were a hassle.

You were happy when you saw your place from the distance as the animals moved around in the back of the truck.

Thankfully none of them fell out. Thankfully there was a cage for the chickens and you wiped a bead of sweat from your brow.

After unloading the animals into the corral and closed the fence, you headed back inside where you sat down your bag, locked up and headed upstairs to take a bath and fall asleep.

The bath was a little warm and you washed away the dirt of today before changing into your pajamas and opening the door to the bathroom. Sitting on the bed, was the last person you ever expected to be there.

"Hey. Y/N. Do you think we can have that talk now?"

the lawn is dead, the lawn is dead

the lawn is dead

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 13 days ago

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A Shadow Beyond Doubt (Part One)

Description: Vex always found themselves moving from place to place. Deep down they knew it was best to keep to themselves for they knew people were dangerous. For years they were alone, unnoticed by the infected, society and the world around them. Until one night that changes.

Pairing: Abby Anderson x OC!

Warnings: Language, Blood, Mentions of Mental Illness, and other things.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Tonight was one of those nights.

The kind where the cold didn’t just settle into bones—it carved into them.

Curled within what had once been a maintenance tunnel, they stared up at the ceiling, watching it sag with age and rot. Time had chewed through the structure, left it hollow and damp. The walls dripped with moisture so relentless, it had begun to seep through the coat wrapped tightly around them. Still, they didn’t remove it. The hood remained up. The gas mask stayed on.

A half-rotted tarp covered their figure completely, reeking of old blood and mildew. Not fresh—something aged, lingering. A memory more than a warning. Proof they were still alive.

Flat on their back, one hand rested against the hilt of a sickle, the other curled beneath their chest. Hours passed this way. Still. Silent. The dark pressed in like a weight they no longer noticed.

Sleep never came.

Not anymore.

Not because of fear—that had burned out long ago. What had once been fear was now a scorched vacancy, leaving behind only smoke.

They listened instead. To the steady hiss of breath through the mask—in, out, in, out. They timed their heartbeat to it. Counted the droplets hitting metal. Tracked the wind threading through cracks in the stone.

They didn’t move. They didn’t speak.

The world outside would stir soon. It always did. Not with people—but with the ghosts they left behind. In the hollow shells of homes. The bones of civilization.

When the sun began to rise, they didn’t see it—they felt it.

The shift in air. The subtle motion of birds—only the clever ones, the cruel ones. The survivors. The ones who, like them, had become something else entirely.

Emerging from beneath the tarp, they stretched their limbs. Nothing elegant. Just slow, deliberate movements to remind the body it still functioned. They wiped condensation off the mask and cinched the straps tighter.

The sickles slid back into their sheaths with practiced ease, clipped to the belt. The pack slung over one shoulder. Gloves tightened. Every movement instinctual now—reflexes shaped by scar tissue.

Inventory followed.

Half a protein bar. A jar of something unidentifiable, but not yet spoiled. Two water bottles—one half-full. Four crossbow bolts, one crusted with old blood. No bullets for the sidearm. Irrelevant. Guns weren’t useful anymore. Too loud. Too final.

Noise meant attention.

And attention was fatal.

They had lived alone from the beginning—not by choice, not by valor—but because survival had demanded it. People died. People left. People promised and failed. So, eventually, they stopped waiting.

Others etched time into walls, marked seasons on their weapons. They didn’t bother. The world had ended. Everything since felt like time stolen from something else.

And maybe… maybe the debt was already too deep to repay.

The walk out of the tunnel was slow—not tired, just cautious.

The city followed a rhythm of decay. Collapsed buildings. Buckled streets. Cars stripped to skeletons. Mold and moss reclaiming all. Areas where the infected roamed, and others where they died.

The air here stank of wet leaves and fungus. But not rot. Rot meant bodies. And bodies meant someone left them behind.

They kept walking.

Soon the ruins gave way to a neighborhood—suburban, once. Cookie-cutter houses now warped by silence and time. Front lawns choked with vines. White picket fences turned green. American flags torn to ribbons.

One house still bore children’s drawings in the windows—stick figures, sun faces, crude rainbows. Their fingers twitched at the sight. Something stirred. Not memory. Just recognition.

They didn’t stop.

A dog barked in the distance. Then, silence.

Perched in a tree, they chewed the protein bar in slow, mechanical bites, scanning the terrain. Nothing stirred. No infected. No humans. Just wind. Just birds. Just silence.

No one ever saw them.

Once, that used to hurt. Made them feel like a ghost. Now, it fit. A ghost that killed. That felt cold. That ate. Not dead. But not alive.

The mask helped.

It turned them into a shape instead of a person. Something you saw and chose not to follow. The coat. The hood. The silent step. Armor, not just from the world—but from themself.

They had seen their reflection once—and didn’t recognize it.

Good.

Recognition was weakness.

By midafternoon, they found a body. Still warm. A bullet between the eyes. WLF jacket. Likely a deserter or thief. Didn’t matter. What mattered was what he left.

They crouched, checked pockets. No ID. No food. A lighter. A flask, half full. Three handmade bolts.

They took the bolts. Left the flask. The smell of whiskey turned their stomach. A memory tried to surface. It was denied.

The body wasn’t buried. What would be the point? Dirt didn’t absolve. The world no longer cared for ceremony.

They moved on.

That night, a garage became shelter. Barricaded with scrap metal and bones. Human ones. Whoever did it wanted to keep something out. Or in.

They didn’t care which.

They slipped through the barrier quietly. Inside, it was dry. Moldy mattress, but softer than concrete. A sliver of light fell through the roof’s crack. They sat on the edge of the bed. Unpacked. Hung the coat. But the mask stayed on.

It always did.

They tried to sleep.

They failed.

They listened. To wind, to the screech of a distant cat, to the pulsing hum of blood in their own head. And wondered. What it would take for it to stop. If anyone would notice if they simply stopped walking. Maybe that’s what happened to the others. The names they didn’t let themself remember.

Eventually, they let their body pretend to sleep.

Day three without rest passed in a haze. They moved like a ghost. Avoided roads. Slipped alongside destruction. A shadow in a world of ash. Smoke curled on the horizon—controlled fire. They didn’t approach. Just noted the direction and veered away. People were worse than infected.

A half-collapsed church appeared. Moss-covered. The bell tower bent like a broken spine. They entered without sound. The air reeked of wet stone and rot. Shattered pews. Shattered glass. A melted crucifix above the altar. They sat in the back.

Not to pray.

Just to exist in a place someone once believed something.

Eventually, they drifted through more ruins, slipping between fallen buildings, drifting like smoke. The deeper they went, the more they wondered how they’d gotten here. Not because they regretted it—but because survival left no other option.

They dropped from a ledge, rolling onto the cracked, overgrown street below. Seattle lay before them like a graveyard. Familiar. Valiant Music Center. Barko’s. FEDRA outposts. All mapped, memorized. As night approached, they climbed to the rooftop of an apartment complex. Best vantage. Better than sleeping in gutted cars. No rain, but they rigged a tarp just in case. From the edge, they scanned for movement. Infected, they could manage.

But people?

People were dangerous.

Didn’t matter if they were survivors, Fireflies, WLF. Smiles meant nothing. Help meant danger. And those still breathing had done things to stay that way—things no one spoke of in daylight. So they moved. Quiet. Nameless. Let the world forget them.Even now, curled beneath the tarp, one eye remained open. Rain tapped softly on plastic. A reminder.

Quiet never meant safe.

They didn’t build fires. Didn’t hum. Didn’t speak. Silence was the only companion that hadn’t tried to kill them.

Once, a boy followed them. Maybe ten. Called himself Miles. Quick. Clever. But not careful enough. A tripwire ended him near Tacoma. They didn’t bury him. Just watched the dust settle—and kept moving.

This world taught one rule: Don’t look back. The moment you did, it cracked you open.

And once you were open—you were dead. So the hood stayed up. The mask stayed on. They walked alone.

And they survived—

BANG!

A gunshot split the air. Shouts followed. Slurs. Barking dogs. Patrols. Multiple.

They inhaled sharply.

They’d be searching the area within hours. With no time to spare, they packed quickly and ran, leaping across rooftops. Scar routes. Known only to a few. More gunfire echoed behind them. A warzone. They dropped from a rooftop, vanishing into the shadows. Rounding a corner—they froze. There they were. WLF soldiers.

They hadn’t noticed yet.

"Scour every nook and cranny until you find them. Isaac wants them alive," said a woman—braided hair, muscular frame. Her voice sharp, commanding.

The others dispersed. One remained with her. A man—Hispanic—discussing orders in hushed tones.

Nothing useful.

Still crouched in the dark, unseen, unheard, they watched. Listened.

And waited.

Vex knew that they had to leave. And so they did. When Vex stepped out of the alleyway, thunder rumbled overhead, and Vex silently cursed in their head. They thought it wasn't supposed to rain. But to their surprise, the weather changed in an instant.

Rain hammered the concrete. A gray, endless sheet pouring from a sky that hadn’t seen sun in weeks. Vex moved like vapor—low to the ground, coat dragging through slick mud, mask filtering in wet, iron-scented air.

The dual sickles rested across their back, tied with cord and leather—one for each hand, handles worn smooth from constant grip. They didn’t use guns. Not unless they had no choice. Guns were loud. Guns got you remembered.

They weren’t supposed to be remembered.

The warehouse ahead was half-collapsed, but the walls still stood. Rusted steel. Vines. No rot-smell—no spores. That meant safety. Maybe. Vex approached silently, boots squelching in the muck. A flick of a lockpick and the side door popped open.

They slipped in.

Dark. Quiet. Dead.

Perfect.

They moved through the aisles of broken crates and upturned shelving like a phantom, scanning corners and ceilings. Old paint peeled in strips from the rafters. A nest of rats squeaked and vanished into a hole.

Then came the voices.

“Sweep this side—library was a bust. We check here, then head back.”

Vex froze.

Footsteps. The sound of boots tracking in the wet. Flashlight beams jittering against the walls.

WLF.

They ducked low behind a shelving unit, fingers tightening around the curve of their right sickle. Four voices. All armed. Close-range chatter. One of them walked with heavier steps than the others. Purposeful. Not stiff like command. Controlled, aware.

And then she stepped into view.

Abby Anderson.

Vex didn’t know the name. Not yet. But they felt the gravity of her.

Her frame was all muscle and history—rain glinting off her shoulders as she scanned the dark. Her jaw was set like stone. Eyes sharp. She didn’t move like she was searching. She moved like she was hunting. She passed within three feet of them.

And didn’t see them.

Vex stayed still. Not breathing. Not moving. They bent the world around them with silence. With absence. Their gas mask reflected nothing. Their heartbeat didn’t matter. Their breath didn’t exist.

Abby paused. Looked right at them.

For one moment, they swore her gaze met theirs. Then her eyes slid away.

“Nothing here,” she muttered, voice low, rough with suspicion. She didn’t sound convinced.

“You sure?” another soldier asked.

“...Yeah.”

Vex didn’t exhale until she turned her back.

They could’ve stayed hidden. But something about her stuck in the back of their mind like a hooked blade.

They followed her trail.

It was stupid. Reckless. But Vex hadn’t felt noticed in months—maybe longer. Most people ignored them completely or didn't see them. Abby hadn’t. Not fully. She’d sensed something.

They needed to know why.

A trail of fresh boot prints and cigarette butts led them to a makeshift camp under a rusted overpass. Four soldiers, gathered around a fire made from scavenged wood and synthetic cloth. The smoke smelled like plastic.

Abby sat on the far edge, sharpening a knife with the slow rhythm of someone who needed something to do with their hands. Her eyes flicked to the darkness now and again. She hadn’t let her guard down, not even with her back to her people.

Vex crouched behind a tipped-over road sign, watching. Blades sheathed across their back, mask hissing softly as filters did their work.

They knew better.

They knew to walk away.

And still… they stayed.

And then, again, she looked at them.

Not past. Not near.

Directly at them.

Her body tensed. She rose slowly, drawing her knife.

“We’re not alone.”

“What?”

“Someone’s watching us.”

The others scrambled, reaching for rifles and flashlights. Vex was already moving—low, fast, silent, slipping away into the wet black of the trees, heart hammering behind layers of Kevlar and canvas.

This time, it wasn’t fear that drove them.

It was curiosity.

She saw them.

Somehow.

Someone had seen them—and Vex didn't know whether to be surprised or impressed.

---

#abby anderson tlou2 #abby anderson #abby tlou #abby anderson x oc tlou2 #abby anderson x oc #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x y/n #tlou #tlou x oc #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #the last of us #fanfiction author

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 29 days ago

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 29 days ago

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Friend group chats are fun. Today one of my friends, who keeps pet crayfish, found babies in a tank that was supposed to be a males only. No choice but to empty out the whole tank to fish out the babies of unknowable origins. But lo and behold, there was a culprit: one teeny tiny little female had somehow escaped containment, evidently specifically going out of her way to break into this all male tank to get railed by like 15 males twice her size. Possibly completely different breed, too. Monsterfucker supreme.

So for a good solid hour or so, the whole group chat was focused on. slutshaming this one specific little crustacean. With like 300 babies.

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 29 days ago

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“no we’re not gay. i’m just raising a kid with him”

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 29 days ago

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Me, age 10, doing an essay on the pharaoh’s curse for school: huh. So this archeologist that died and everyone thought it was because he disturbed the pharaoh’s tomb actually died because he used a rusty razor to shave and it infected a mosquito bite. I can see how people could come to that conclusion, but it is a bit silly

Me, today, shaving my mosquito bite-ridden legs: I must tread carefully lest I incur the pharaoh’s wrath

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 1 month ago

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having a very fun awesome time they are

regular pic under the cut :p

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 2 months ago

Note

lookit!!¡

so happy 2 see u again fwiend i brought u cake つυ´♡⁠ ﻌ ♡⁠`⑅υつ 🧁🍰🎂

Awwww thanks so much!!!!!

#💕🤣😭🥹🥺 mishapoc #mishapoc answers

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lighthouse-for-the-lost · 2 months ago

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Title: Starlight in the Wake

Pairing: Rodimus Prime x Cybertronian!Reader

Word Count: ~2,200

Warnings: Emotional vulnerability, some peril, light angst, romantic tension, fluff

⸻

You hadn’t meant to stay this long on the Lost Light. In fact, you hadn’t meant to be here at all.

The research station orbiting the mining colony of Vion-7 was supposed to be your last stop before returning home. But when the Decepticon raiders attacked, scattering your crew and damaging your ship, it was Rodimus and his team who had arrived in a blaze of light and fury to push them back.

A temporary rescue. That’s what they called it.

Three weeks later, you were still here.

The Lost Light was alive in a way you hadn’t expected—metallic, yes, but vibrant. Its corridors hummed like a song. The crew were eccentric and brilliant, sometimes dangerous, sometimes ridiculous. There were philosophers and gladiators, warriors and poets, and then there was Rodimus.

Loud. Daring. Infuriatingly charming.

“Are you still mad I hotwired your comms console?” he asked one day, leaning against the threshold of your temporary quarters, arms folded, mouth curled in that half-smile that made your stomach twist.

“You mean am I still mad that you rewired my personal messages to play the ‘Rodimus Was Right’ jingle every time I got one?” you replied coolly, not looking up from your datapad.

“I thought it was a good use of time,” he said. “Morale booster.”

“For who?”

“Me.”

You sighed. “Rodimus, what do you want?”

His grin faltered for a heartbeat—so quick most would’ve missed it. But you didn’t. You were beginning to learn the nuance in his expression, the subtle shift of plating over facial struts, the flicker of emotion behind his optics.

“I want you to come with me,” he said. “To the observation deck. Just for a bit.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“I like the way you see things.”

You stared at him. “That’s… weirdly poetic for you.”

He blinked. “Was it too much? I’ve been reading Rung’s recs. Emotional intelligence. Trying it out.”

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Just you and me?”

“Well, yeah. Unless you think Whirl would make it more romantic.”

You choked on a laugh. “Fine. But only if you don’t rewire anything on the way.”

He mock-saluted. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

⸻

The observation deck wasn’t technically a deck. It was a dome—transparent, framed in reinforced poly-alloy—and it gave you an unfiltered view of the stars. A celestial theater, always in motion.

Rodimus stood beside you, unusually quiet, hands clasped behind his back.

“They don’t look dangerous,” you said softly, pointing to the streaks of light trailing past the dome. “But they’re fast. Violent. Untouchable.”

He didn’t respond right away.

“I used to think I was like that,” he said finally. “A star that burned fast and bright. That everyone admired until it got too close and scorched them.”

You turned to look at him. He wasn’t smiling now.

“That’s not who you are.”

His optics flickered to you. “No?”

“You’re bright, yeah. But you’re not distant. You dive headfirst into everything. You don’t just burn—you light up the whole damn room.”

The silence between you stretched.

“You keep doing that,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“Saying stuff that gets past all my armor.”

You looked away, heart pounding. “Maybe I just see more than you think.”

He reached for your hand—careful, slow—and his metal fingers brushed yours. Warm, despite the alloy. Steady.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me the way you do,” he said.

⸻

The next few days passed in a blur of shared meals, rerouted patrols, and too many close encounters with existential danger. You fought beside him during a scavenger mission gone wrong on a derelict moonbase. You patched his arm when it was nearly torn off by a feral spark-eater. You caught him looking at you more than once when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

“I could stay,” you said one night, more to yourself than anyone.

But he heard.

“You could.”

“I mean, it’s not like I have a ship anymore. Or a crew.”

“You’ve got one now,” he said quietly.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

Neither of you said anything more.

⸻

Then came the distress signal.

A rogue quantum anomaly had swallowed half a science vessel on the edge of uncharted space. The Lost Light was the closest ship. Rodimus made the call.

The jump was brutal.

When you came to, the bridge was half-dark, and you could barely hear through the ringing in your ears. Systems flickered. Sparks danced from the ceiling. The floor trembled beneath you.

“Rodimus!” you called, coughing.

He stumbled into view, singed but upright, face grim.

“You okay?” he asked, crouching beside you.

You nodded shakily. “Mostly.”

“Good. Because we’ve got company.”

Out of the smoke, the intruder emerged—more shadow than mech, twisted by the anomaly, its spark energy unstable and writhing. It surged toward you, and you flinched—only for Rodimus to throw himself in front of you.

He took the hit. All of it.

You screamed his name.

The blast sent him flying into the far wall, crumpling on impact. You scrambled to him, hands shaking as you reached for his face.

“Rodimus—!”

His optics dimmed. “Guess I really lit up the room this time, huh?”

“Don’t joke—don’t you dare—”

But he was fading.

And the enemy loomed.

You didn’t think. You acted. You grabbed the damaged energon conductor beside you and slammed it into the anomaly’s form. A pulse of light erupted—and silence followed.

When the smoke cleared, the creature was gone.

And Rodimus was still offline.

⸻

He woke three days later in medbay, groggy and confused.

You were at his side before he could speak.

“You idiot,” you said, tears on your cheeks. “You nearly died.”

“I had to protect you.”

“You could’ve died.”

“I’d do it again.”

You didn’t let him finish. You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. “You don’t have to burn for me, Rodimus. You just have to stay.”

His fingers brushed your cheek. “You really want me to?”

“Always.”

He smiled. And for the first time, it wasn’t flashy or overconfident—it was soft. Real.

“I’m not great at this. Romance. Feelings. But if you give me a chance… I want to try.”

You laughed, wet and broken. “You already are.”

⸻

The rest of the crew pretended not to notice the way you lingered at his side, the way his arm always curved protectively around you during briefings, the way you stole quiet moments in corners of the ship that no one else used. But there were jokes, of course.

“I give it a week,” said Whirl.

“Three days,” said Swerve, passing out betting slips.

Rodimus ignored them all.

You didn’t.

You kissed him in front of the whole command crew during a particularly heated debate about protocol just to shut them up.

The room went silent.

Rodimus looked stunned. Then delighted.

And then you were pinned gently against the console, his mouth warm and hungry against yours.

When you finally broke apart, he murmured, “You keep surprising me.”

“Get used to it.”

“I plan to.”

⸻

Nights aboard the Lost Light became less lonely. You slept curled in a nest of wires and cushions he rigged in his quarters, surrounded by the low hum of his systems and the faint glow of the stars beyond the viewport.

He told you stories of Cybertron’s past, of adventures and failures and moments he wished he could rewrite.

You told him about Earth, about your dreams and the places you wanted to see.

“We’ll go there,” he promised one night, tracing a circle around your wrist with his thumb. “Everywhere. As long as I’m with you.”

“You mean that?”

“With everything I am.”

You stared at him, overwhelmed.

He caught your gaze, optics soft. “You’re not a detour, you know. You’re the destination.”

⸻

And when you said “I love you,” whispered under a canopy of stars while the ship drifted through a sea of nebulae, he didn’t hesitate.

“I love you more than anything in the universe,” he said, voice low and reverent. “And I don’t care if that makes me reckless.”

You smiled. “You were reckless long before me.”

“Yeah,” he said, nuzzling your temple. “But now I’ve got a reason to be even more reckless.”

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