Timeless Tales

Medical Student, 22 New to fanfiction and to creative writing!

[timeless-fanfic]

The Chosen Masterlist

*This has not been updated since October. I am so sorry...but it is very time consuming and my priority is catching up on requests right now! I will let you know when it is updated.

Andrew

Atticus

Big James

Gaius

Jesus

John

Judas

Mary of Bethany

Matthew

Nathanael

Pilate

Simon Z

Thaddeus

Thomas

The Letters

Other

[faithhopeandlove]

Inbox OPEN-!

Hi y’all-!!! I’m Aricka; and it’s about time I did one of these things.

I’m opening this ask box for a while, so go ahead and ask me:

About myself (nothing TOO personal lol)

About the Aricka in my stories

About any of my stories I’m writing

About the relationships Aricka has with each character

Or if you want to see Aricka interacting with a specific character in a specific scene! NOTHING ROMANTIC; they’re all my brothers/sisters/family and Jesus is my ultimate Big Brother and Best Friend.

@thechosenlover @sweetweasleygirlstuff @stir-up-the-water @timeless-fanfic @the-chosen-fanfiction

[timeless-fanfic]

Hi!! I adore your writing <3

May I request a fic about Simon Zee, where he brings the reader a small handful of flowers he picked because she likes to sketch them, and she puts them in his hair and does a drawing of him?

Sketches in Wildflower Blue Pairing: Simon Z x Reader

The morning broke soft and blue.

The Sea of Galilee stretched out like glass, barely rippling under the first breath of sunlight. Mist curled along the water’s edge, weaving through reeds and wild olive trees. Birds began their song from unseen branches overhead, and in the hush of dawn, the world felt… almost untouched.

You sat cross-legged under the fig tree near camp, your sketchbook balanced on your lap and a lump of charcoal in your fingers. The page was already smudged with wildflowers—lavender thistles, crown daisies, and poppies—drawn from memory and a few half-wilted samples you'd picked on a walk two days earlier. Their beauty tugged at your heart, transient and bright.

Behind you, the camp was quiet. Most were still asleep, or just stirring. A pot clinked. Andrew’s muffled cough. Then silence again, save the sea and the birds.

You didn’t hear his footsteps at first.

"You're up early," came a voice from behind.

Your hand paused mid-stroke. You smiled to yourself before turning. "So are you."

Simon—Simon the Zealot, as everyone still called him though you rarely did—stood a few paces away, a little out of breath and covered in morning dew. His tunic clung damply to his arms, and tucked carefully in one calloused hand was a humble bundle of wildflowers.

Your eyes widened.

“I—” he glanced down, almost sheepishly. “I remembered you said you liked to sketch them. And these… well, I noticed them on the ridge beyond the path to Capernaum. I thought they might be… new for you.”

You stared, momentarily robbed of words. The flowers were simple, humble, unarranged: a few tiny blue flax blossoms, some desert bells, a handful of clover. They looked like the field itself had whispered something into his hands.

You reached for them gently, your fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” you said, and meant it more deeply than the words could hold. “They’re beautiful.”

His mouth twitched, barely a smile, but you saw the light in his eyes.

“Sit,” you offered, gesturing beside you under the fig tree.

He hesitated—he always did, like he wasn't quite sure how to be still yet. But then he lowered himself beside you, crossing his legs, back straight like always. His posture reminded you of the way he fought: focused, alert. Like he expected danger even in the petals of a flower.

You watched him a moment. “You always look like you’re preparing for battle.”

He blinked. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only a little,” you said, and turned back to your sketchbook with a smile. “But today you brought flowers. That seems more like peace than war.”

He looked away, as though embarrassed. “The habits… don’t vanish quickly.”

You softened. “I know. But you’re not the same man anymore, Simon.”

A quiet hung between you.

His eyes went to the paper in your lap, to the careful renderings of blossoms and stems.

“May I see what you’ve done?” he asked.

You turned the book toward him. He leaned in slightly, and you could feel his warmth even in the cool dawn air.

“They’re better than the real thing,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“They’re nothing compared to the real thing,” you replied. “But I like trying. Capturing beauty before it fades.”

His eyes flicked to yours. “Is that what you do with us, too?”

You paused, caught off-guard. “What do you mean?”

“You watch us. All of us. You sketch flowers and people the same way. Like you’re trying to keep something alive.”

You met his gaze. “Maybe I am.”

He didn’t look away. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to destroy things. It never occurred to me how much strength it takes to create something instead.”

Your heart stirred.

You looked down at the flowers in your hand. Then, on impulse, you reached for one of the blue flax blossoms—a delicate, five-petaled thing—and tucked it behind his ear.

Simon froze.

“Hold still,” you said, smiling. “You brought them. It's only fair you wear one.”

He narrowed his eyes, but not in anger—more like confused amusement. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m completely serious,” you said, reaching for another. “Don’t move.”

You tucked another into his dark, messy hair. Then a poppy. Then a stem of something pale and wild. Soon, he looked like a reluctant woodland prince—half warrior, half meadow.

“I’ll regret this,” he muttered under his breath.

“No, you won’t,” you said, reaching for your charcoal.

Simon frowned. “You’re going to draw me like this?”

“Of course.”

He made a sound like a groan but didn’t move. In fact, he straightened his back even more.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

His profile was sharp and solemn, softened only by the small absurdity of the flowers in his hair. His jaw was still bruised from the last scuffle in the marketplace—he hadn’t even started it this time—and there was a scar just at the base of his throat. You traced every detail onto the page, slowly, reverently.

For a while, there was only the sound of charcoal against parchment.

Then, quietly, he asked, “Why do you spend time with me?”

You looked up, surprised by the question.

He was still staring straight ahead, unmoving for your sketch, but you saw the tension in his shoulders.

“Because I like you,” you said, simply.

“You like drawing me.”

“I like you,” you repeated, more firmly this time. “Even when you don’t understand why.”

A long silence.

Finally, his voice came, low and raw. “I don’t know how to be the kind of man who’s... gentle.”

You set your charcoal down.

“Simon,” you said, drawing his gaze to yours, “you don’t have to become someone you’re not. You just have to let yourself become. That’s what He’s doing in all of us.”

His throat moved as he swallowed. His eyes—so often steely and watchful—were suddenly vulnerable, like a boy who’d never been given permission to rest.

“I see the way you protect the others,” you said. “How you carry burdens that aren’t yours. How you sleep closest to the edge of camp and always eat last. That is gentleness. It just wears armor sometimes.”

He exhaled slowly, like the truth of your words both comforted and frightened him.

You reached out, brushing a stray petal from his brow.

“There,” you said. “Finished.”

He raised his eyebrows. “The sketch or the flower crown?”

You laughed. “Both.”

He leaned over to look. You tilted the page toward him.

He stared in silence. In the image, he was still and strong—but softened by the flowers and the look in his own drawn eyes. You hadn’t meant to draw him lovingly, but you had. It couldn’t be helped.

“You made me look...” He didn’t finish.

You offered quietly, “Like someone worth loving?”

His eyes met yours, and you saw something in them break open. Not painfully—but like a door swinging inward on long-rusted hinges.

“Yes,” he said finally.

You closed the book gently.

The sun had risen fully now, casting gold over the sea and waking the rest of the world.

Simon stood and offered his hand.

You took it.

As he pulled you up, the flowers tumbled from his hair, falling around your feet like confetti.

He looked down at them, then back at you, and this time, he smiled—truly smiled.

Maybe not every scar fades. But even wildflowers bloom in broken places.

[timeless-fanfic]

Hello can you please do a big John x reader where they are scared and nervous around him because he is so tall and loud but John notices and becomes worried because he really likes her and tries to figure out what's wrong

First Impressions Word Count: 2,824 Big James x Reader

The first time (Y/N) saw Big James, she thought her heart might leap straight out of her chest.

He wasn’t doing anything wrong—just laughing at something Peter said, his voice booming through the air like a clap of thunder. His arms crossed casually over his chest, muscles pulling against the worn fabric of his tunic, and he looked every bit like a man you wouldn’t want to upset.

(Y/N) hugged herself, shrinking a little without meaning to.

It wasn't just him. (Y/N) had always struggled to be at ease around men, especially ones who took up so much space. Tall, broad, loud—they felt unpredictable, even if they meant no harm.

Still, something about James’ laughter made her feel pinned to the spot, too aware of her own smallness.

She tried to shake it off as she quietly settled near the edge of the group, where the women were preparing food. Her hands busied themselves with a basket of bread, fingers trembling slightly.

Across the clearing, John leaned back on his hands, watching his brother carefully.

He had noticed the way (Y/N) stiffened whenever Big James came near—the way she lowered her head, the slight step back she took without thinking. And he had noticed something else, too: the way Big James couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her.

It wasn’t anything inappropriate. If anything, it was... sweet.

Big James looked at her like she hung the stars.

But (Y/N) didn’t seem to realize it. To her, James’ size and voice probably looked like a threat, not the adoration it truly was.

John frowned to himself.

Big James needed to be careful—or better yet, he needed help.

Later, as the group began to settle for the evening, (Y/N) caught James’ eye completely by accident. Her breath caught again when he smiled—a wide, earnest smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

She gave a tiny, nervous smile back before quickly looking down at her hands.

Big James' heart ached. He hadn’t meant to scare her. In fact, he could barely find the words to say anything at all when she was near. He had never met anyone with a faith like hers—quiet but fierce, like a candle that could burn through the darkest night.

He wanted—needed—to know her better.

But how could he do that if every time he came near, she looked like she might bolt?

John watched his brother and sighed.

If you keep looking at her like that, he thought, you're going to scare her right into the next town.

John stood up and brushed off his tunic. If he didn’t step in soon, this was going to be a disaster.

And he wasn’t about to let either of them miss out on something that could be good.

The next morning, (Y/N) knelt by the riverbank, scrubbing a pot in the chilly water. The camp buzzed behind her with the soft, familiar noise of friends waking, conversations starting, and a fire crackling to life.

She liked this—the quiet rhythm of morning tasks. It gave her a way to stay useful, to blend into the background where she felt safest.

So when she heard footsteps approaching, she tensed instinctively.

“Morning,” came a soft voice.

She turned, blinking up at John. His hands were in his pockets, his usual bright energy tempered to something gentler, something thoughtful.

“Good morning,” she said, offering a small smile.

John hesitated a moment, then crouched down beside her, tapping a stick against a rock thoughtfully.

“You doing okay?” he asked. “With all of... this?”

(Y/N) bit her lip. She knew what he meant without him needing to explain. She glanced back toward the camp, where Big James was helping Zebedee load some supplies. His voice, normally booming and exuberant, was oddly hushed today—almost like he was whispering, which for him was still a low rumble.

She sighed, turning her gaze back to the river.

“I am,” she said, trying to sound more certain than she felt. “Everyone's been kind. I just—" She hesitated, searching for the words. "I’m not always good with... loudness. Or... big things. Or..." she laughed weakly, "big, loud people.”

John nodded slowly, not laughing at her, not dismissing it.

“Especially Big James?” he guessed, voice kind.

(Y/N) looked down, cheeks burning. “It’s not his fault,” she said quickly. “He seems... kind. Really kind. I just—” She gave a helpless little shrug. “Old fears. Hard to shake.”

John tapped the stick against the rock again, thinking.

“Well,” he said, offering her a sidelong smile, “for what it’s worth, you’re not wrong. He is kind. Probably one of the kindest of all of us. Just... loud about it.”

(Y/N) huffed a soft laugh, grateful for the warmth in John's tone.

Across the camp, Big James glanced their way—and promptly tripped over a bucket.

(Y/N) covered her mouth to stifle a giggle, watching him mumble something apologetic as he righted it and hurried on.

He was trying so hard to be... smaller, somehow. She could see it now. The way he hunched his shoulders when he passed her, speaking softer than usual, careful not to get too close.

Her heart pinched strangely at the sight.

Maybe she had been wrong to be so wary. Or maybe—maybe it wasn't about right or wrong. Maybe it was just about learning to see him clearly.

Because in the little things—the way he carried heavier burdens without being asked, the way he handed out the best portions of food without a word—she was starting to see the gentleness she hadn't noticed before.

And when he caught her glancing at him, offering a cautious but real smile— Big James beamed, so bright it was like standing in the sun.

John leaned in slightly, voice low. “Don’t tell him I said this,” he murmured, mock-conspiratorial, “but he’s completely hopeless over you.”

(Y/N) startled, her face heating. “John—!”

He grinned, standing up and dusting off his hands.

“Just thought you should know,” he said breezily, walking away toward the fire, leaving her flustered and staring after him.

Her hands dipped back into the water, scrubbing the pot mechanically, but her mind was somewhere far away—on a man too large, too loud... and maybe, just maybe, exactly as kind and earnest as she had always hoped someone could be.

The midday sun bore down heavy and unrelenting as the small group set about repairing one of the travel carts. The wheel had cracked badly, and with more miles ahead of them, it couldn’t wait.

(Y/N) stood nearby, biting her lip. She wasn’t strong enough to lift the cart, nor skilled enough to fix the wheel itself, but she hated just standing by uselessly. So when someone called out for extra rope to secure the repair, she immediately moved to help.

The rope was heavy and tangled, and no matter how she tried, she couldn't seem to get it to cooperate. Her fingers fumbled over the knots, her heart pounding faster with each minute she failed to make progress. She could feel others moving around her, busy and focused, and the frustration and embarrassment built like a rising tide.

She didn't even notice Big James approaching until his shadow stretched long over her.

“Here,” he said, voice low and careful, almost shy. “Let me... may I help?”

(Y/N) froze for a second, looking up at him. His expression wasn’t impatient or judging—it was open, concerned, and so very gentle.

She nodded mutely, stepping back just a little.

James knelt beside the rope, his large hands deft and steady. He didn't yank it from her or take over aggressively. Instead, he worked alongside her, showing her how to pull at one part of the knot while he worked at another. Their hands brushed once, and he immediately murmured, “Sorry,” pulling back slightly to give her more room.

But the warmth of that brief touch lingered.

Within minutes, the rope was untangled, coiled neatly at their feet.

James glanced up at her, smiling a little—nervous, hopeful. “You did most of it,” he said, even though they both knew he had done the heavy lifting.

(Y/N)'s heart ached in the best way at his earnestness.

“Thank you,” she said softly, and for the first time, she meant it without any trace of fear.

James beamed so brightly her breath caught in her throat.

A little while later, as she rested in the shade and tried to process the morning, John dropped down beside her, tossing a pebble into the dust.

“You know,” he said casually, “James has always been strong. It’s... easy to notice that first.”

(Y/N) looked at him out of the corner of her eye, curious where he was going with this.

“But the thing is," John continued, picking up another pebble and rolling it between his fingers, "he’s not strong because he likes showing off. He’s strong because he thinks it’s the best way to protect people. The people he cares about.”

He let the pebble drop and gave her a sideways smile.

“You don’t have to be scared of him,” John said gently. “He’d never hurt you. Not even close.”

(Y/N) swallowed hard, emotion tightening her throat.

She nodded slowly, her gaze drifting toward James, who was laughing at something Peter had said, his whole body thrown into the joy of it.

She had seen strength before—but rarely had she seen it paired with such tenderness.

Maybe... maybe she could trust that.

Maybe she already was.

As if feeling her gaze, Big James glanced her way. His smile softened when he saw her looking, his shoulders relaxing, like her very presence brought him peace.

And this time, (Y/N) didn’t look away.

She smiled back.

The evening was quiet, the kind of stillness that made every crackling fire and soft laugh feel sharper, closer, warmer. The group had settled after the day's long walk, sharing bread and dried figs around a small, flickering flame.

(Y/N) sat near the edge of the circle, her hands folded in her lap. She wasn’t withdrawn anymore—not really—but habits were hard to break, and she still found herself lingering at the edges more often than not.

Tonight, though, she wasn't truly alone.

Across the fire, Big James kept glancing at her—subtle, almost awkward peeks—and every time their eyes met, he would quickly look away, his face flushed in the firelight.

It was... endearing.

Finally, after a lot of fidgeting and clearly psyching himself up, James rose and made his way over. His strides were long, but careful, almost timid compared to his usual booming confidence.

(Y/N) watched him come, her heart beating a little faster—but not from fear. From something different. Something warm.

“Hi,” he said, standing there like he wasn’t quite sure if he should sit.

She smiled softly and shifted to make room. “Hi.”

James sat—carefully, like he was trying not to take up too much space.

There was a long pause, filled only by the pop of the firewood and the distant sound of Simon laughing with Nathaniel.

James cleared his throat, staring at his hands.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he blurted, then winced at how loud it came out. He lowered his voice immediately, leaning closer. “I mean—if you want to hear it.”

(Y/N) tilted her head, her heart thudding gently against her ribs. “I’d like that.”

James swallowed hard. His hands twisted together awkwardly for a moment before he finally found the courage to meet her gaze.

“I know I can be... loud. And maybe a little—” he grimaced slightly, searching for a word “—much sometimes.”

(Y/N) let out a small breath of a laugh, not unkindly.

“But the truth is, it’s not because I want to scare anyone. Least of all you.” His voice softened, almost reverent. “It’s because... I care. A lot. About the people God has placed in my life. About you.”

(Y/N)'s breath caught.

James rushed on, words tumbling out now, like he couldn't stop them. “I admire your faith. Your spirit. You listen better than anyone I know. You notice things others miss. You’re... you’re so strong, even when you don’t think you are. I just—I wanted you to know.”

The honesty of it hit her harder than any booming shout ever could.

(Y/N) blinked rapidly, her throat tightening. She wasn’t afraid. Not even a little.

In fact, sitting here, with James practically shrinking himself so she would feel safe, with his words so careful and sincere— She felt safe.

Safe and wanted.

Something must have shown on her face because James’s shoulders relaxed slightly, his mouth curving into a hesitant, hopeful smile.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered, surprising even herself.

James’s eyes widened a little in awe, like she had given him the greatest gift he could imagine.

“You don’t have to be,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Not ever.”

And somehow, deep in her bones, she knew he meant it.

She smiled, a real, full smile—and James’s answering grin lit up the dark like a sunrise.

For the first time since they met, there was no wall between them. Only warmth. Only trust.

Only something growing so gently between them that it already felt like it had always been there.

The next few days passed with a gentler kind of quiet between them—one not born of fear or uncertainty, but of something tender, still growing.

(Y/N) found herself seeking James out now, sitting a little closer during meals, walking near him when they traveled. He didn’t push, didn’t crowd her; he simply was there, steady and patient, a comforting presence like the sun warming her back.

One evening, as the others were busy preparing a simple meal, (Y/N) wandered down a narrow path lined with olive trees. She just needed a moment to breathe, to pray, to settle her heart—which, if she was honest, had been fluttering wildly ever since that night by the fire.

Footsteps crunched on the path behind her, and she turned to see Big James coming toward her, one hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hi,” he said, his voice a little breathless, like he’d hurried to catch up.

“Hi,” she replied, smiling shyly.

For a moment, neither spoke. James shifted his weight, looking down at the dusty ground.

“I—uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. “I just... I wanted to talk to you. If you have a moment.”

“I do,” (Y/N) said softly.

James took a deep breath. His eyes, usually so full of fire and certainty, were vulnerable now—open, raw, achingly sincere.

“I meant everything I said the other night,” he began, voice low. “But there’s... more. If you’ll let me say it.”

(Y/N) nodded, her heart thudding.

James laughed under his breath—nervous, boyish. He looked like he was about to face down a Roman army, not confess something tender.

“I don’t just admire you, (Y/N),” he said. “I... I like you. I care about you more than I know how to say. And I know I’m not perfect—I’m loud, and clumsy, and I probably say the wrong thing half the time—but I would never hurt you. I’d spend the rest of my life making sure you knew how safe you are with me, if you’d let me.”

He stopped, breathing hard, like he had just run a long race.

(Y/N)'s chest felt too small to hold the warmth spreading through her. She stepped closer, hesitating just for a moment—old instincts whispering—but the trust she had built with him, brick by careful brick, steadied her.

“I like you too, James,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “I was scared, but it wasn’t because of you. It was... everything before you. But you—you make me feel safe.”

James’s entire face lit up, his grin so wide and full of wonder that (Y/N) couldn’t help but laugh softly.

Without thinking, he reached for her hand—then stopped, inches away, silently asking for permission.

(Y/N) nodded.

His hand engulfed hers, warm and careful, like she was the most precious thing he had ever held.

“We can go slow,” James said earnestly. “As slow as you need.”

Tears prickled at (Y/N)’s eyes, but for once, they weren’t from fear or sadness. They were from joy—the overwhelming kind that feels too big to fit inside one heart.

“I’d like that,” she whispered.

James squeezed her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a sweet, clumsy caress.

And standing there, in the quiet between the olive trees, they both knew:

This was only the beginning.

A beginning built not on noise or force, but on trust, patience, and a love that would grow, strong and sure, like the roots of the ancient trees around them.

[timeless-fanfic]

I really like your fics. they make me feel better

This makes me so incredibly happy to hear! Much love to you, and I hope this community can continue to bring you comfort! <3

[timeless-fanfic]

hi! How is your day going? :)

It is going wonderfully! Thank you for asking!

[timeless-fanfic]

When will you be posting again? ❤️

Tonight! I have exams for the next two weeks or so...then I have a couple days off...then a new set of classes begin. But the class I have scheduled for the end of May should be fairly easy compared to some of the current classes I am taking so I should have plenty of time to write!

[timeless-fanfic]

Yayy your back!!!

Yes...finally!

[timeless-fanfic]

“I Have Seen the Lord” Word Count: 489

Jesus x Reader (Platonic)

Note: This request came in as a DM! I know it's shorter, but I had so many Easter plans with family so I didn't have much time to write. It is my intention to do the second part of your request later this week to do it more justice!

The morning air was cool and damp, the sky still painted in the soft grays of dawn as (Y/N) walked beside Mary Magdalene and the Salome Her hands clutched the jar of spices she had prepared with trembling care, though her mind was far from steady.

She hadn't slept.

Her heart had been torn into pieces days ago, and no amount of rest could stitch it back together. Jesus was… gone. And none of them knew how to be whole without Him.

The silence among the women was thick. Not awkward—but sacred. Grief had made them quiet.

The path to the tomb was one they had memorized already, but something felt… different. A tension in the air. A stillness that wasn't just sleep—it was waiting.

When they rounded the final bend and the tomb came into view, (Y/N)'s breath caught in her throat.

The stone.

It had been rolled away.

Mary gasped beside her, running forward without a word. Salome dropped her jar. (Y/N) stumbled closer, eyes wide. She didn’t understand. What had happened? Who would do this?

She hovered just outside the tomb, her whole body on edge, heart pounding.

And then—

“Why are you looking for the living among the dead?”

Two men stood near the tomb—dressed in white, calm, glowing with something she couldn’t name. Her breath caught again.

“He is not here,” one of them said. “He has risen.”

She stared at them, unblinking. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

The women didn’t wait. Mary bolted, running to find the others. Salome followed. But (Y/N) stayed.

It felt like her feet had taken root.

What does this mean?

She turned slowly, her eyes scanning the garden, blinking back tears. Her thoughts were a storm—grief, confusion, a flicker of something that felt dangerously like hope.

And then she saw Him.

At first, she didn’t recognize Him. The light was soft, and He stood with His back to her, looking at the trees. Just a man. Just a gardener.

But when He turned…

“(Y/N),” He said.

Her name on His lips made the world stop.

She knew that voice. Knew the way He said her name like it mattered—like she mattered.

Tears spilled freely now. Her knees gave way and she dropped to the ground.

“Teacher,” she whispered, the only word she could find, spoken through a broken sob.

He stepped closer, smiling with that look she had missed—warm, knowing, kind.

“You don’t need to be afraid.”

“I thought…” Her voice broke. “I thought it was over.”

“It’s only the beginning,” Jesus said.

She let out a laugh—shaky, awestruck.

“Go and tell the others,” He said gently. “Tell them what you’ve seen.”

Her hands trembled, but her feet moved.

She didn’t even notice the tears on her cheeks or the grass brushing her sandals as she ran.

Because she had seen the Lord.

[timeless-fanfic]

He Is Risen Easter Sunday | Word Count: 439

Today is not just another morning.

It is the morning—the one that broke through sorrow with sunrise, that split grief wide open with the sound of an empty tomb. Today we remember that silence was not the end of the story. Not the silence of Friday’s death, nor the silence of Saturday’s waiting. Because Sunday came. And with it, life.

The stone was rolled away—not with thunder and spectacle, but with the quiet power of a promise fulfilled.

Can you imagine the first breath He took? The way the grave couldn’t hold Him—not because it wasn’t sealed tightly, but because He was never meant to stay there. Death bowed its head, not in defeat, but in awe. Because Jesus didn’t just escape the grave—He overcame it.

This morning is holy. Not because of our rituals or traditions, but because of the remembrance. The awe. The heartbreak that turns to healing. The despair that is swallowed by joy.

It is holy because He lives.

And maybe for you—like for me—Easter isn’t only about resurrection in the abstract. It’s about the deeply personal kind. The parts of your story that felt too far gone, too broken, too silent. The griefs you’ve buried. The prayers that felt unanswered. The ache you’ve carried year after year.

But today reminds us—nothing is too dead for Jesus.

He meets us in gardens where we grieve, just like Mary. He speaks our name and opens our eyes to hope. He walks with us on roads paved with confusion, like the men to Emmaus. And He stands in rooms locked by fear, whispering, “Peace be with you.”

I think of the characters I love from The Chosen, and how Easter must have changed everything for them. For Mary Magdalene—freed and redeemed—seeing her Savior again must have healed wounds she didn’t even know she had. For Thomas, the doubt-scarred realist, Easter meant his hands could touch the Truth. For John, who loved so deeply, the resurrection was not just proof of divinity, but the return of the One he adored.

For Andrew—the tender-hearted disciple whose love ran deep and quiet—imagine what it meant for him to hear Jesus say his name again.

And for us?

Easter is a whisper to our hearts:

You are not too lost. Not too broken. Not forgotten. I see you. I love you. I rose—for you.

So wherever you find yourself this Easter—whether you're singing with joy, or barely whispering your hallelujahs—may you know this:

The grave is still empty.

Jesus is still risen.

And your story isn’t over.

[timeless-fanfic]

who is your favorite character in the chosen?

Honestly, it's so hard to choose just one favorite character in The Chosen because I truly love each of them in such personal, meaningful ways.

I love John so much—there’s something in the way he looks at Jesus that just fills my heart. He adores Jesus so deeply, even in the quiet, unassuming moments—when Jesus is just being rather than performing miracles or teaching. That kind of steady love and awe reminds me of what it means to follow Him wholeheartedly.

Of course, I absolutely love Jesus. His portrayal in The Chosen is so warm and gentle—it’s comforting in a way I can't fully describe. I have a complicated relationship with the idea of a father. My earthly father was absent and struggled with addiction and abuse, and he passed away some time ago. Because of that, the love of my Heavenly Father is the only fatherly love I’ve ever really known. Jesus has taken many forms in my heart over the years, but this portrayal in The Chosen helps me visualize Him in a more intimate and relatable way. Being able to see His warmth—even if it’s just a portrayal—helps me feel closer to Him.

I also really love Andrew. There’s something about how deeply he feels and how intensely he loves. You can see it in how much he wants to do everything right for Jesus, how hard he tries to keep peace, and how much emotion he holds inside. I relate to that a lot—loving deeply, feeling everything so much, even when you can’t always find the words to express it.

And Matthew… I don’t even have enough words. As someone who is a high-masking autistic person, seeing a character like Matthew portrayed with so much care, complexity, and dignity is deeply moving. It’s one of the first times I’ve felt truly seen in media like this. His journey is treated with so much compassion, and it means the world to me.

That’s not to say I don’t love the others—every character is so thoughtfully written, and I think the creators have done an absolutely incredible job capturing the heart and humanity of each of them. Every story, every nuance—it all matters. And it all makes this show incredibly special to me.

[timeless-fanfic]

My idea for a oneshot : reader is sister of sons of thunder(yeah, this is my favorite headcannon 😍😍😍), and she got scared when she saw Big James hurt on his forehead and being carried by Peter and John(he was carried by John, right 🤔?). When they tell her what happened, she helps John with their brother, and after, when Zeb tells the boys about Yussif's message, she got scared and worried about her brothers, but they comfort her ❤️

Injury and Comforting Thunder

Word Count: 2,064

Pairing: Big James x (Sister) Reader, John x (Sister) Reader

The sun was beginning to lower, spilling golden light across the camp. You were seated near the fire pit, sorting through a small satchel of dried herbs and linens—nothing urgent, just preparing for the coming days of travel.

Your brothers had been gone since midday.

You weren’t worried. Not yet.

The Sons of Thunder could handle themselves. And if Peter was with them, even better—he always acted like a human shield when things got out of hand.

But then you heard someone calling out. It wasn’t the kind of shout that meant victory or a joke gone too far.

It was John.

And he sounded afraid.

You dropped the satchel and stood, heart already beginning to race as your eyes followed the sound.

And then you saw them.

Peter was rushing ahead, waving people aside, while behind him—

“John?” Your voice cracked as you stumbled toward them.

John was struggling beneath Big James’ weight, his arm looped under his brother’s, holding him up—but barely. James’ head lolled slightly to one side, blood trailing from a cut near his temple, staining the edge of John’s sleeve.

You couldn’t breathe.

“What—what happened?!” You ran to meet them just as John staggered again.

“He’s fine,” John gasped. “We just—we had a run-in. He hit his head, that’s all—”

“That’s all?!” Your voice came out sharp as you reached for James, steadying him as Peter took the other side.

“(Y/N), don’t panic,” Peter said quickly. “We’ve seen worse. He’s not unconscious—just dizzy.”

Big James groaned softly, eyes fluttering open.

You pushed a trembling hand over your mouth and nodded once, trying to focus.

“Lay him down,” you said, already moving to clear a space. “Here. On the blanket. John, help me hold him up.”

Peter gently eased James down, and John crouched beside you, his hand on your shoulder as if to anchor both of you.

“He shielded me,” John said after a moment, voice tight. “There was a stone—someone threw it, and he…he stepped in front of me.”

You paused, brushing hair back from James’ forehead to see the wound. “He always does that.”

“I know,” John murmured.

You glanced at him then.

His eyes were red at the corners. Guilt was written all over his face.

“Don’t blame yourself,” you whispered.

“He’s my brother,” he said.

“He’s mine too,” you answered softly, dipping the cloth into a nearby bowl and pressing it gently to the cut.

James hissed but didn’t protest.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. “Just let me sleep for a bit.”

“You’re not sleeping until I check for a concussion,” you snapped, too scared to care about sounding gentle.

Peter handed you a flask of water, and you cleaned around the wound while checking James’ pupils.

John stayed close, his knee against yours, his hands twitching uselessly in his lap. He kept offering to help, but you could tell his nerves had rattled him more than he was willing to admit.

When James had finally settled, eyes closed, his breathing evening out beneath the linen blanket, you let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

You sat back on your heels and looked over at John.

His tunic was stained with blood.

You reached out and gently pulled a leaf from his curls. “You’re shaking.”

“So are you,” he said, offering a faint smile.

You didn’t reply. You just leaned into him a little, your shoulder against his.

And in that quiet moment, the sky deepened into dusk, and the world felt just a little more fragile than it had that morning.

The fire had burned low by the time Zebedee returned.

You were sitting a few paces away from your brothers, legs tucked beneath you, arms folded tight against the growing night chill. John had convinced you to rest after Big James finally fell asleep. You’d been hesitant to leave his side, but one look from John—soft but firm—was all it took.

Now, your eyes flickered from the coals to your father as he approached, dust clinging to the hem of his robe and exhaustion written across his face. Something about the way he walked—slower than usual, like each step carried weight—set your heart thrumming again.

“Zeb,” Peter called quietly, rising to meet him.

The group stilled. Even Matthew looked up from his spot on the edge of camp.

Zebedee didn’t speak right away. He glanced around at the circle of tired, bruised men and women. His eyes found you briefly, and for a moment—just a flicker—he looked older than you’d ever seen him.

“I spoke with Yussif,” he finally said, voice low but steady. “And…his message was clear.”

The silence was immediate.

You could hear your own heartbeat.

“There’s movement in the city,” Zebedee continued. “The Pharisees are growing more…hostile. Divided, maybe. But there’s fear among them. And fear leads to rash decisions.”

He paused.

You didn’t realize how tightly your fingers were gripping your sleeve until you felt the tug of the fabric.

“They’re watching. Listening. Gathering names. Faces. They’ve already spoken of some of you—those who’ve performed miracles, those who’ve questioned tradition too loudly.”

You felt John shift beside you.

“And?” Peter asked, the edge in his voice barely masked.

“And they may not wait much longer before making an example.”

There was no shouting. No panic. Just the quiet weight of truth settling over the camp like a heavy fog.

You barely breathed.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t known this was dangerous. You’d watched miracles performed, you’d heard whispers from the edges of the crowd when Yeshua taught. You’d seen the anger, the confusion, the doubt in those who followed the law with clenched fists.

But today, Big James came home bleeding.

And now?

Now you knew how close it had really come.

You turned your gaze toward your brothers—Big James still sleeping beneath layers of blankets, John sitting upright, gaze locked on the fire, jaw clenched tight.

What if it had been worse?

What if you’d lost him?

What if both of them had been attacked?

Your chest tightened. You pulled your knees closer.

There was a strange ringing in your ears—not loud, but insistent.

You hadn’t said a word since Zebedee arrived.

And your silence did not go unnoticed.

Across the fire, Andrew glanced at you. You offered a weak smile, then looked away before he could say anything.

You weren’t ready to talk.

Not yet.

Zebedee continued speaking with Peter and Thaddeus, but their words blurred around you.

You didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not with everyone watching. Not when you were supposed to be strong, when your brothers were the ones who'd bled for this cause.

But strength wasn’t what you felt.

You felt small.

You felt fragile.

And you didn’t know how to stop the quiet panic that had curled up in your chest and decided to stay.

John shifted again beside you and said your name gently.

You blinked, startled.

“You’re quiet,” he said, brow furrowed with concern.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

He didn’t press, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

James would wake soon.

Zebedee would finish his warnings.

And you?

You’d sit there in the dark, trying to hide how scared you really were.

But your brothers knew you too well.

The camp had quieted again.

Peter and Zebedee sat in low conversation near the fire. A few of the others had retreated into silence, laying on bedrolls, watching stars drift overhead. Somewhere, a cricket sang into the dusk.

But your mind couldn’t find stillness.

Not even the soft weight of the blanket John had draped over your shoulders helped. You sat a little distance from the others now, closer to the olive tree where you could pretend to be alone, where your thoughts could unravel safely in the dark.

Your arms wrapped around your knees.

Big James had woken for only a few moments earlier. His voice had been groggy, but when he reached for your hand—like he used to when the three of you were small—you nearly cried right then.

He’d gone back to sleep quickly.

And you hadn't stopped thinking since.

You hadn’t stopped imagining what might’ve happened. What if John hadn’t been there? What if Peter hadn’t seen them from a distance? What if…

The grass rustled behind you.

You didn’t turn around, already recognizing the gait. It was heavier than John’s, a little less cautious.

Big James.

You felt him lower himself to sit beside you, carefully, with a small grunt of pain.

“I told you not to sit up yet,” you whispered.

“I was already awake.”

You didn’t reply. Your eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. The stars were brighter tonight. Maybe that was supposed to be comforting.

James looked at you for a long moment.

Then, very quietly, he said, “You were crying earlier.”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Okay.” He leaned his elbow on his knee, shifting carefully to avoid aggravating the cut on his temple. “You were…doing something with your face that looked a lot like crying.”

You didn’t smile. Not even a little. You didn’t have it in you tonight.

After a pause, you muttered, “You scared me.”

“I know.”

And then—soft footsteps again.

John.

He knelt on your other side, not saying a word at first. Just sat there. Close. Safe.

You suddenly felt very young again.

The way you used to when they stood on either side of you to chase off a street heckler.

The way they always knew when you needed help, even before you did.

“You were there,” you whispered to John, eyes locked on the stars. “When it happened. What if you hadn’t been?”

John’s voice was quiet. “But I was.”

“I know. But if you hadn’t…”

“I was.”

His hand found yours, warm and steady. He didn’t squeeze it. Just held it.

James exhaled through his nose. “You don’t have to pretend it didn’t shake you.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“You haven’t eaten. You haven’t spoken. You won’t look anyone in the eye. You only do that when you’re afraid.”

There was no edge in his voice. Just truth.

You hated how easily they read you.

“I hate this,” you said quietly. “I hate not knowing what’s next. I hate that any day one of you could leave and not come back. I hate how close it came today.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, and you cursed yourself for it.

John’s hand tightened around yours.

James shifted, laying his hand gently on your back.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Not tonight. Not without each other.”

“You can’t promise that,” you whispered.

“No. But I can promise we’ll never stop trying.”

Your breath hitched. You turned your face away, eyes stinging, cheeks wet before you realized you'd let go.

There was no lecture.

No chiding for being scared.

Just your brothers sitting beside you, steady as they’d always been. The Sons of Thunder. Your family before anything else.

John leaned his head lightly against yours.

“You remember that market stall in Sepphoris?” he asked suddenly.

A shaky laugh slipped from your lips. “The one I almost knocked over?”

“Almost?” James scoffed. “You did knock it over. Took five baskets of figs with you.”

“I was twelve!”

“And still blaming your sandals,” John teased.

“You were the ones who dared me to climb it!”

“You said you were agile like a cat,” James said. “We were testing your theory.”

You laughed for real this time. A soft, raw, broken thing—but real.

The kind of laugh that comes only after you’ve cried too hard and held it in too long.

“I just…” you swallowed. “I don’t want to be left behind.”

“You won’t be,” John said gently. “We’d burn the world down before we let that happen.”

James nodded. “We’re your brothers. That doesn’t stop because we’re following Yeshua. It only means we carry you with us, no matter where we go.”

And maybe it wasn’t a promise of safety.

But it was a promise.

One that wrapped around you in the cool of the night like the blanket on your shoulders, like the arms that pulled you in as James kissed your head and John leaned closer.

And for now, that was enough.

[timeless-fanfic]

Seeing all those requests, I noticed that Andrew is popular! Then I saw that some of the disciples haven't barely any or none requests, so I'm going to fix that!

Thaddeus x reader, where the reader noticed him and he is suprised that he is seen, because he's kinda like an underdog.

Little James x reader, where Little James has a little sister and she suddenly sees him. Like an emotionally reunion, and the disciples are shocked that he has a sister.

Nathaniel x reader, Nathaniel is like someone who likes to talk, our just blurt things out, what if he's suddenly very akward around the reader? Because he likes her.

Judas x reader, when Judas started stealing money and he suddenly meet a women who needs help, and he helps her and start to bond with her?

Big James x reader, where the reader is really small for her age, and people treat her like she's a kid. But Big James sees her in another way.

Hope you can work these out. God Bless!

The Silence That Doesn’t Fit

Word Count: 1,183

Pairing: Nathaniel x Reader

Nathaniel wasn’t known for being quiet.

In fact, he could talk for hours—about scriptures, Roman architecture, obscure philosophical riddles, or how much he loves figs. He’d once interrupted breakfast to explain how stars were formed, and no one had asked.

So when he went silent, it didn’t go unnoticed by the other disciples.

Especially when it only happened around one person.

You.

It wasn’t like you two didn’t know each other. You’d been traveling with the group for months now. You’d had plenty of conversations—quick, curious ones that sparked and fizzled before you could get past the surface. Nathaniel had always been warm and witty and maybe a bit too quick with his words.

But lately?

Whenever you entered the room, he got weirdly quiet.

You’d glance at him during dinner and find him staring into his bowl like it contained secret scripture. When you asked him a question, he’d blink three times and then blurt something out about Galilean weather patterns.

It was strange.

And, if you were honest, a little disappointing.

You sat near the fire one night, brushing tangles from your hair, when Matthew sat beside you with a knowing look and a handful of dried fruit.

“You know he likes you, right?”

You blinked. “Who?”

Matthew tilted his head. “Nathaniel.”

You stared. “He barely speaks to me.”

“Exactly.”

“…That doesn’t make sense.”

Matthew popped a fig into his mouth and shrugged. “He’s terrified of you.”

You laughed despite yourself. “I think you’re mistaking fear for indifference.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Nathaniel is only ever quiet when he’s terrified. And I believe the only thing that terrifies him is liking someone.”

You went still.

That didn’t fit. Not with the Nathaniel you knew. The one who used to launch into debates mid-walk or ask you what your favorite cloud shape was like it was the most serious question in the world.

You glanced across the fire, where he was currently trying—and failing—to get a stick to balance in the flames.

As if sensing your gaze, he looked up.

Your eyes met.

And he immediately dropped the stick, stumbled, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “logs are slippery.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “See?”

You looked back at him, heart unexpectedly light. “You might be right.”

Matthew grinned. “I know I am.”

At first, you’d brushed it off.

Nathaniel was just...distracted. Maybe preoccupied. You’d convinced yourself it was nothing—he was tired, or thinking about something big and theological again.

But now? Days had passed. And he hadn’t so much as looked at you for more than a few seconds at a time.

You caught him once, mid-meal, when your hands brushed reaching for the same basket of bread. He flinched. Visibly. Like he’d touched something hot.

You’d murmured an apology. He’d dropped the basket.

That night, you sat alone near the outer edge of camp, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve, replaying every interaction you could remember. Had you said something wrong? Laughed at something he’d meant seriously? Maybe your presence made him uncomfortable—maybe—

“He’s malfunctioning,” said a familiar voice behind you.

You turned to see Matthew lowering himself onto a rock beside you, carefully holding two figs in his palm. “In case you didn’t get any earlier,” he said, handing you one without making eye contact.

You blinked. “Thank you?”

He nodded like the matter was settled. “About Nathaniel. He’s malfunctioning.”

You tried not to smile. “That’s...a strong word.”

“Well, it’s the only one that applies,” Matthew said, tone entirely serious. “He has a high capacity for verbal processing and abstraction, but around you, his ability to form a coherent sentence drops significantly. His system is overloaded.”

“I think I made him uncomfortable,” you admitted quietly, rolling the fig between your fingers. “He’s been avoiding me.”

“He’s avoiding his feelings,” Matthew corrected. “You are a secondary variable.”

“I’m not sure that makes me feel better,” you muttered.

Matthew tilted his head. “I was trying to help.”

You softened. “I know.”

He paused, studying you for a moment. “Would you like me to fix it?”

“Fix it?”

“I have advice I could give him,” he said. “Even if he doesn’t ask.”

You hesitated. “…What kind of advice?”

“The kind that makes people stop doing confusing things.” He blinked. “At least in theory.”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but before you could stop him, Matthew was already up and walking briskly toward Nathaniel, who was standing by a cluster of olive trees, nervously fidgeting with the strap of his satchel.

You watched from a distance, heart racing, as Matthew pulled Nathaniel aside and began gesturing with calm certainty.

Nathaniel’s eyes widened. Then narrowed.

Then he turned and looked directly at you.

You quickly looked down at the fig.

When you looked up again, he was walking toward you.

Oh no.

You sat up straighter, heart thudding.

“Hi,” he said, stopping a few feet away, looking—well, panicked was the only word for it. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he also looked like he was physically forcing himself to stay put.

“Hi,” you echoed.

“I’m not avoiding you,” he blurted.

You blinked. “Okay.”

“I mean, I was avoiding you, but not because you did anything, or because I think you’re annoying or—or strange or anything like that.”

“…Thanks?”

“I mean, not that you’d be annoying, I just—” He exhaled hard and ran a hand down his face. “Okay, I practiced this. Matthew said I should just say the most logical thing first so the rest of the panic doesn’t fog up my brain.”

“…That sounds like Matthew.”

“But I forgot what the logical thing was.” He looked up at you, clearly spiraling. “Which proves I’m panicking, which proves I really like you, and now I’ve said it without context, which is probably worse.”

Your breath caught.

There it was.

You stared at him, stunned silent.

Nathaniel, for his part, looked like he was about to combust. “You’re not saying anything. I shouldn’t have said that. I should go—”

“Nathaniel.”

He froze.

“I didn’t think you liked me at all,” you said gently. “I thought you were avoiding me because I did something wrong.”

“You didn’t,” he said quickly. “You didn’t. You were just…being you. And I—”

You took a step closer. “And you…?”

He looked at you, hands clenched at his sides. “And I’m not good at liking people. Or saying it right. Or acting normal about it.”

You smiled. “I think you’re doing okay.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

A long pause.

He blinked. “So should I still leave?”

You laughed. “No. Sit down before you trip over something.”

Nathaniel slowly sank onto the ground beside you, hands still twitching slightly, like his body didn’t know whether to flee or stay still.

You passed him your fig.

He blinked again. “I already had two.”

“Have three,” you said with a smirk.

He smiled—nervous, sweet, and very real.

And next to a nearby tree, Matthew observed from a distance, arms crossed, nodding once with quiet satisfaction.

[timeless-fanfic]

Andrew and reader are fighting and he swoops in and kisses her anyways

The Middle of the Storm

Word Count: 1,940

Pairing: Andrew x Reader

There had been something off all day.

You knew it the moment Andrew passed you that morning without saying more than a quiet “shalom.” His eyes didn’t meet yours like they usually did. No brief touch to your arm. No crooked little smile.

Just a shadow.

And silence.

You tried not to take it personally at first. Maybe it had been a bad night. Maybe Simon had snapped at him. Maybe the crowds were getting to him again.

But by midday, when he chose to sit on the far end of the group—closer to James and Philip than you—you stopped making excuses.

It wasn’t just a bad day.

It was you.

You watched him quietly from across the camp, jaw tense, hands fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. He laughed at something Philip said, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And when he glanced your way—briefly, just once—it was like a wall had fallen between you.

You felt it in your chest. A dull ache. A question forming like a stone.

So when the sun dipped low, and people scattered to tend to evening tasks, you followed him.

He had wandered toward the grove, where the trees softened the air and the ground held the day’s warmth. You found him standing by one of the low stone walls, back turned, arms crossed.

“Andrew,” you said softly.

He didn’t turn right away.

You stepped closer. “Have I done something?”

A pause.

Then: “No.”

You frowned. “You’re lying.”

That made him turn. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw the conflict behind them. Not anger. Not yet. Just... fatigue. From holding something in too long.

“I’m not lying,” he said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you.

“Then talk to me,” you said, not unkindly. “Please.”

His lips pressed into a tight line.

“It’s not a good time.”

“That’s what you said yesterday. And the day before.”

Something sharp flashed in his expression. “Maybe because it’s never a good time with you lately.”

The words landed like a slap—not in their cruelty, but in their truth.

You swallowed. “So that’s what this is?”

“I don’t know what this is,” he said, voice rising. “One minute we’re fine, and the next—I don’t know. You look at me like I’m not enough. Like I’m failing.”

Your brows knit. “Failing? Andrew, I’ve never—”

“I’m trying to be everything,” he said, stepping away, pacing now. “A disciple. A brother. Someone you can rely on. I’m tired, (Y/N). And when I look at you, I’m scared all you see is the weight I’m not strong enough to carry.”

Your heart broke at that.

You hadn’t realized he’d been carrying you in that weight.

“I never asked you to carry all of that,” you said, quieter now.

“No,” he said, eyes snapping back to yours, “but you expect me to carry you.”

Silence fell between you like a gaping chasm.

Your mouth parted, stunned.

And then you turned and walked away—fast, head down, hands shaking.

He didn’t follow.

The next morning, you were up before the sun.

Sleep had been useless—your mind replaying every word, every flash of Andrew’s expression. It wasn’t just the argument that stung. It was the way it left no room for closure. No softness. Just silence.

You sat near the edge of the encampment, arms wrapped around your knees as the sky bloomed pale gold. You could hear early stirrings: a fire crackling back to life, the shuffle of sandals on dry grass, a distant yawn. But no one disturbed you. You looked like you wanted to be alone.

And you did.

Mostly.

Until footsteps approached, steady and familiar. Not his—you knew that already. You didn’t tense.

Simon sat down beside you without a word, elbows resting on his knees, face sleep-rumpled and serious. He didn’t look at you at first.

“I heard,” he said eventually, not unkindly.

Your stomach twisted. “Of course you did.”

He shrugged a little. “Wasn’t hard. You two weren’t exactly whispering.”

You looked away, embarrassed. “We didn’t mean to make it a spectacle.”

“Didn’t,” he said simply. “But that doesn’t mean people didn’t notice. You and Andrew aren’t exactly… easy to miss. Especially when something’s off.”

You swallowed hard. “I think I made it worse.”

Simon finally looked at you. “I think he did too.”

Your breath caught.

“He’s stubborn,” Simon continued. “Thinks he has to do everything right the first time or he’s not worthy. Especially with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not something he ever expected to have. And when something’s that precious, fear makes you stupid.”

That hit deeper than you wanted it to.

You stared out at the horizon, eyes stinging with unshed tears. “He said I expected too much of him.”

Simon rubbed the back of his neck. “He probably believes that. Doesn’t make it true.”

You shook your head slowly. “I never wanted him to feel like he had to carry me. I just wanted him to let me carry some of it too.”

Simon was quiet for a moment, nodding like he understood too well.

“You know,” he said, “he came to our tent last night. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there, staring at the floor. Eden gave him a blanket and told him he was being a fool.”

Despite everything, a small, breathy laugh escaped you.

Simon smiled faintly. “He didn’t argue.”

You pulled your knees closer. “Do you think he’ll talk to me today?”

“I think he’ll want to,” Simon said, standing slowly. “I think he just doesn’t know how yet.”

He paused, then looked down at you, tone gentler than usual. “But knowing my brother? He’ll figure it out. He always does—eventually.”

You watched him walk away, heart aching in a new, softer way.

And somewhere, across the camp, you knew Andrew was awake too—maybe pacing, maybe thinking, maybe watching the same rising sun and wondering if you'd ever let him try again.

Andrew hadn’t slept.

Not really.

He’d laid on his back for hours, staring at the worn canvas above him in Simon and Eden’s tent, the borrowed blanket tangled around his legs, guilt pressing heavy on his chest like a stone.

He could still see your face.

The way your eyes had gone so wide when he’d said those words. The way you hadn’t fought back—not really. Just turned. And left.

He’d let you leave.

That part haunted him most.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself, sitting up and scrubbing a hand down his face.

The early light of dawn painted the inside of the tent in soft amber. Eden had stirred beside Simon sometime in the night, but neither of them had said much after letting him in. A few knowing glances. A squeeze of his hand. The quiet, unspoken understanding that something in him had cracked.

And he’d let it.

He hadn’t even tried to stop it.

Now, alone in the tent, Andrew bent forward and clasped his hands, letting his elbows rest on his knees. He tried to pray—but his thoughts felt too loud, too tangled. Everything he might’ve said to God caught in his throat.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

But you hadn’t heard that part.

You’d only heard the breaking.

He stood after a while and ducked out into the morning light, blinking against the brightness. Camp was slowly stirring, scattered conversations rising with the warmth of the day. He looked for you instinctively, heart lurching—but didn’t see you.

Good, he told himself.

You deserved space.

He needed time.

But the quiet ache in his chest said otherwise.

He wandered past the olive trees where the fight had happened, and his feet stopped almost involuntarily. The wall was still there. The place you’d stood, the way you’d looked at him—hurt and searching. Expecting something he hadn’t known how to give.

He sighed and leaned against the stone, letting his head fall back against the bark of the tree behind him.

“Why do I always ruin it when it matters most?” he murmured to no one.

There was no answer. Just the rustle of wind through the trees and the faint scent of olives hanging in the air.

But even without a voice, he felt the pull in his heart—that soft, relentless voice of conviction. You’d tried. You’d reached out. And he’d let his own fear answer instead of his love.

He rubbed a hand over his face again.

You’d called him out. Told him he shut down when things got hard.

And he had.

Because loving you meant being seen—and that terrified him more than he could explain.

But losing you?

That was worse.

He exhaled slowly and straightened up.

It wouldn’t be today. Not yet. But he was going to fix it. He just needed to know where to start.

And more than that—he needed to be brave enough to finish.

It was evening again when you saw him.

You’d spent the day helping a few of the women with meal prep, your hands busy but your mind elsewhere. The ache in your chest hadn’t dulled, only settled—less sharp, more hollow.

Until you turned, and there he was.

Andrew stood just beyond the edge of camp, half-shadowed in the soft glow of oil lamps and firelight, eyes already fixed on you like he’d been waiting for the right moment.

And maybe… the right courage.

Your heart flipped.

He made his way toward you slowly, arms loose at his sides, shoulders tense like he still wasn’t sure if he was welcome. He stopped just a few paces away.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey.”

A beat passed.

And then another.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “A real one.”

You didn’t move—just watched him, letting him keep going. You needed to hear it. He needed to say it.

“I was scared,” he admitted, voice low. “Of failing. Of being too much—or not enough. And I used that fear to push you away. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t look away. He was trembling, just barely. Not visibly—but you could feel it in the air between you.

“I don’t expect you to fix everything,” you whispered. “I never did.”

“I know that now,” he said. “And I want to stop running from the things that matter. Starting with you.”

Your breath caught.

Slowly, hesitantly, he stepped closer.

“I miss you,” he said.

Your voice cracked on the reply. “I miss you too.”

The space between you vanished.

He didn’t rush the next moment. Just reached up, carefully, like you were something delicate. His fingers brushed your cheek, then slid behind your ear, curling into your hair as he looked at you—truly looked at you—for the first time in days.

And then, like the most natural thing in the world, Andrew leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t a desperate kiss. It was slow and trembling and full of apology. His other hand rested at your waist, grounding both of you as you melted into him, feeling all the tension spill out like water breaking free from stone.

When he pulled back, his forehead touched yours.

“You don’t have to carry everything,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured back. “As long as I’m carrying it with you.”

You nodded, tears finally falling—but now, they were warm. Gentle. Healing.

The kind of tears that said something broken has been mended.

And beside you, Andrew exhaled like a man who’d found his way home.

[timeless-fanfic]

Can you do Lazarus fanfic plss there’s is none of him written 😔😔

After the Silence

Word Count: 677

Pairing: Lazarus x Reader

The first time you saw him after he returned from the grave, you almost didn’t recognize him.

It wasn’t because of how he looked—his face was the same, his voice still calm and deep, still measured in every word. No, it was the stillness behind his eyes. A silence that hadn’t been there before. As if the world he’d come back to was somehow… quieter than the one he left behind.

You hadn’t been able to stop staring.

Not in fear. Not in disbelief. But in that soft, trembling way people look at miracles when they forget how to speak.

He’d died.

And now he lived.

And all you could think about was how you’d missed your chance to tell him.

Not that he hadn’t known—he had to have known. You’d followed his sisters to visit him enough times, lingered in conversations just a little too long, smiled a little too shyly when he caught your gaze across a crowded courtyard. You had loved him with a quiet heart, a patient hope.

And then he'd gotten sick.

And then it was too late.

Until it wasn’t.

It was evening now. Days had passed since the miracle. The buzz of the village had started to fade into whispers. Guests had gone home. And you were still carrying words you hadn’t yet dared to say.

You found him alone near the olive grove just outside Bethany, sitting on a low stone wall with a loaf of bread untouched beside him. He was staring at the sky like he was still trying to remember how to be here.

You approached slowly.

“Lazarus?” you said softly.

He turned, and when he saw it was you, his expression warmed in that familiar, quiet way. “(Y/N).”

You stopped beside him but didn’t sit yet.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted company,” you offered.

“I do,” he said immediately, then looked slightly surprised at himself. “I mean—yes. I’d like that.”

You sat down next to him, close but not too close. You folded your hands in your lap, eyes scanning the hills in the distance.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then he said it—gently, like an observation: “You’re quiet today.”

You gave a soft laugh. “I’m trying to be careful.”

“Careful?”

“About what I say. About how I look at you. About not saying too much.”

He tilted his head, studying you now. “Why?”

“Because I thought I lost the chance to say anything at all,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “And now that I have it again, I don’t want to waste it.”

He didn’t look away.

He didn’t laugh.

He just reached down slowly, brushing your hand with his, tentative but deliberate. “Say what you want, (Y/N). I’ve heard enough silence to last me a lifetime.”

You blinked. Then turned your hand in his, lacing your fingers gently through his.

“I missed you,” you said first, because it was true.

“I missed you too,” he murmured, just as honestly.

“I thought about you every day. Even when you were gone.”

He nodded. “So did I.”

You looked up at him. “Even when you were…?”

He smiled—soft, tired, but real. “Especially then.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to face you more fully, his hand now resting between both of yours. “Do you know what I held onto, when everything was dark?”

You shook your head.

“Voices,” he said. “Yours. My sisters’. His. I didn’t know if it was memory or prayer. But I heard you. I felt you.”

You closed your eyes, and something inside you finally, finally let go.

A tear slipped down your cheek. “I thought I lost you.”

“And I came back.”

This time, it was you who reached for him.

Not in desperation. Not in fear.

But in wonder.

You rested your forehead gently against his. “I think I was already falling in love with you when you left.”

He smiled, eyes slipping shut. “Then let me give you a thousand days to fall the rest of the way.”

[timeless-fanfic]

i’m so happy that you’re doing much better!❤️❤️❤️

Thank you so much! That is so sweet <3

[timeless-fanfic]

High Above, Held Below

Word Count: 650

Pairing: Andrew x Reader

Note: This came in with a request that had multiple prompts!

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

The Ferris wheel was the centerpiece of the festival, tall and slow and glittering with little lanterns as the sun dipped low behind the hills. Laughter echoed from the booths and carts below, sweetened with the scent of baked honey cakes and roasted nuts. Families wandered between games, lovers lingered under canopies of strung-up lights, and you? You were clutching the side of the Ferris wheel carriage with white knuckles, doing everything you could not to look down.

Andrew sat beside you—completely unaware of your rapidly growing dread as the ride creaked its way upward.

You hadn’t expected it to go this high.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing sideways at you with a soft smile.

You managed a tight nod, forcing your lips into a smile that was far less convincing than you hoped. “Yep. Fine. Totally fine. This is great.”

He frowned gently, tilting his head the way he always did when he knew you were lying but didn’t want to call you out right away.

“You’re gripping the seat like it’s about to fall out from under you.”

“That’s because it might.”

His eyes widened slightly, then softened again as realization dawned. “You’re scared of heights?”

You let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Terrified, actually. But I didn’t want to ruin the moment. You looked so excited.”

Andrew turned slightly in his seat, his attention fully on you now. You kept your gaze locked on the far-off horizon, refusing to look at the ground that seemed miles beneath your dangling feet.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly, guilt lacing his words. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” you said honestly, your voice tight. “And I thought I could handle it. I wanted to do this with you.”

The carriage gave a small lurch as the wheel paused to load someone else below. You let out a sharp breath, your hand tightening around the bar. Your other hand reached blindly toward Andrew’s, seeking any kind of anchor in the open sky.

He didn’t hesitate. His hand closed around yours firmly, warm and grounding.

“You could never disappoint me,” he said gently. “And you don’t have to push yourself like this for me. But... since we’re already up here…”

He trailed off, voice dipping into a softer tone, one laced with that quiet steadiness of his that always made you feel safe—whether you were walking a crowded street, crossing a river, or, apparently, dangling stories above the ground in a rickety basket.

“Look at me,” he said.

You hesitated, but you did. Slowly. Reluctantly.

And there he was—Andrew. Calm, warm, eyes filled with something deeper than comfort. Something closer to awe. He looked at you like you were more beautiful than the sunset behind you. Like you were the reason he had wanted this moment to begin with.

“Still scared?” he asked.

You nodded. “A little.”

“Want me to distract you?”

You blinked, confused. “With what—?”

His free hand gently reached up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. Then, without saying anything else, he leaned in.

And kissed you.

It was soft at first, tentative—his lips brushing yours like a question, a quiet offering. You weren’t sure whether your breath caught because of the fear or because of him. Probably both. But your heart, once racing from anxiety, suddenly flipped for a very different reason.

You kissed him back.

The Ferris wheel creaked again, but you didn’t notice. The ground was still far below, the sky still high above—but you weren’t focused on either.

Just him. Just this.

When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed gently to yours. “Better?”

You nodded, your lips parted slightly as your eyes searched his face.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Much better.”