#but mostly i just want to say i am really really happy.

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 3: OF TRUE AND FALSE MEMORIES

synopsis: you hitch a ride to the heartlands. hopefully your driver doesn't mind you leeching for just a while longer.

word count: 3.6k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: hey ummm merry christmas eve here's an early present. also zion as a concept of faith is mentioned but i am not a zionist trust it's just that joshua graham is unfortunately a mormon 🙏

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog , @photo1030 , @mavenhavenn , @fathermarama , @its-yummi (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

You know the trail to Dead Horse Point well by now. Something is a bit different – but still, Joshua and Daniel and the Dead Horses and Sorrows welcome you and your mules, Rook and Bishop, all the same.

Follows-Chalk, Drumming-Storm, and a few other Dead Horses crowd the mules, offloading everything you had on them: books, kettles, blankets, guns (and accompanying black powder), tobacco, and alcohol. They mostly crowd Rook, as she’s the heavyweight of the two and carries more – Bishop’s more of a riding mule. The Dead Horses wander off soon after, arms full, taking everything to its respective place. 

Joshua approaches you, adjusting the bandages near his eyes to see you better. “You’ve got on well.”

“Yes, sir,” you say. “Happy Trails treats me well. I’m their employee, but I’m also their friend.”

“Yes, but this?” Joshua gestures at the people putting up what you’ve brought. “All this product? They must have put a lot of trust in you.”

“They put more trust in my steeds,” you say. “Both got some burro in them. And they can kick as hard as them, too – especially Bishop.”

“That, I don’t doubt,” Joshua says. 

You watch as Rook shakes her coat out, causing her carrying gear to jingle. Bishop wanders closer to Joshua, nudging at his shoulder and nipping at the bandages that cover Joshua’s arm. Joshua lifts his arm (slowly – again, he’s bandaged all over) and pats the side of Bishop’s face.

“They like it here,” you say. “Maybe it’s something about the canyon. Or maybe they just like you.”

“Zion is a godly place,” Joshua says. His voice, though deep and abrasive, carries a heavy tone of affection. “Wherever man may be, he always dreams of Zion. These creatures may share our same dreams.”

“That’d be nice,” you hum softly. You reach out and place your hand under Rook’s jaw, and she leans forward into your touch. Her big, brown eyes blink slowly as she looks at you, then around the campsite, like she’s appreciating the sight.

“We should probably get going,” you say. You look over at Joshua. “I need to load up on daturana and datura hide. That’s what Happy Trails wants in exchange, anyway.”

“Go talk to Winding-Path,” Joshua says. “She knows what you’re owed.”

When you look to your right, Follows-Chalk is hurrying over, a hand raised and a smile on his face. The painted markings on his face crease and stretch with his smile – rather than spider legs creeping up his cheeks, they look like laugh lines.

“Hoye!” He greets. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you, too,” you say. You reach out to grasp his hand, and as soon as you brush it – 

A bump in the road jolts you awake. You let out a small, confused sound, then settle. 

You’re in the back of a wagon, crammed between folded-up lodgings and kitchen supplies. Your knees are drawn to your chest, and your back is to the wooden side of the wagon. 

Before packing up and making yourself fit into the space left on the wagon, you weren’t really told much of anything. From what you’ve gathered, the men (“men” being the young-ish, able-bodied ones) robbed a train, and now you and the gang have to flee. It seems like you fit right in, because they have a penchant for pissing off the wrong people, just like you.

“Hey, you’re finally awake!” Hosea calls from the front, where he sits next to Arthur.

“Yeah.” You shift and take a quick, deep breath as you rub the sleep from your eyes. “Yeah, I’m up.”

“We’re nearly to the Heartlands,” Hosea says. He turns so that he’s facing you with his arm resting on the back of the seat. “You ever been there before?”

“No,” you say. You sway with the trail in the dirt road and the way Arthur drives. 

“We’re settling up in Horseshoe Overlook,” Hosea says. “It’s near a livestock town called Valentine – all mud and morons, if I remember right.”

“Huh,” you hum. You look away from Hosea and around you. 

It’s different from when you were up in Colter. It’s warmer, for one. The trees aren’t dredged in snow – instead, their branches are covered in leaves, each one green and upturned. Grasses and flowers sprout from the dirt ground, which is now soft and malleable instead of frozen and cold to the touch. Everything is just nicer. 

For a minute, you just listen to the sounds around you. It’s calm. Birdsong fills the air, and you can see animals bounding through the trees of the forest and grasses of the valleys (for the first time in a while, honestly – cities don’t lend themselves well to wildlife). 

What was that dream about? You wonder silently. I was… in the Dead Horses’ camp. But that place is completely fictional, even in this… timeline? Coma-fever-something dream? I don’t even know at this point.

You hear the sound of moving water and look to the front. Arthur is guiding the horses into a stream, which the rest of the caravan has cleared without a problem. 

In the middle of the water, you feel a shock and hear something break. You clutch to the side of the wagon and feel that the driving is a little… off.

“Get us out the stream,” Hosea says. “You gotta keep us moving, but calm.”

Did you just ask Arthur to be calm? You shout in your head. Arthur is the epitome of everything that isn’t calm! He barely feels things, and when he does, he’s meaner than a gas station tweaker – and he’s not even on anything!

Arthur (yes, carefully, you’ll admit) pulls the wagon out of the stream. Just as he does, you feel another shock and a shift. You scramble to hold onto a canister as it nearly falls out of the back of the wagon. 

“Ah, shit!” Arthur curses. He draws the wagon to a stop.

“Okay, let’s take a look,” Hosea says. 

You move and shift the items so that they’re pushed further up the wagon, where you were sitting just before. You hop off the back of the wagon. Sure enough, the wheel has just popped itself right off. 

“You alright back there?” Bill calls from up ahead. 

“Does everything look alright?” Arthur snaps as he hops off the driver’s seat. 

You can see Javier shift in his seat in the wagon ahead of yours, trying to get a better look. “Well, what’s going on?”

Arthur walks closer to you, accessing the damage. He throws a hand up in the air and groans. “I broke the goddamn wheel!”

“Alright!” Hosea chimes. “Let’s get it fixed.” 

“You need help?” Javier calls. 

Hosea waves him off with a hand. “I reckon we can handle it.”

You quickly step back as he and Charles make their way to the back of the wagon. Arthur hoists up the wheel so he can roll it towards the wagon. Hosea and Charles pick up the back, and Arthur forces the wheel back into place. 

You hurry over and pick up a crate, putting it in the wagon. You hop up into the bed of the wagon and take a small chest from Charles, placing it where it belongs.

“Hey, look at you.” Arthur says as he checks the back of the wagon. “You ain’t so useless after all.”

“O-oh,” you say after a second. “You’re talking to me?”

“I am.” He looks up at you. The brim of his hat casts a harsh shadow that partly obscures his eyes. “Did I… offend you, somehow?”

“No, no!” You laugh nervously and take another crate from Charles. “I just wasn’t sure. Sorry.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur hums. 

“Hold on,” Hosea almost hisses. 

You look over at him, and he’s looking to the side. You follow his eyes and see three figures on the ridge of a cliff, each perched on a horse. You can barely make out their facial features, but they look like Native Americans.

“What you think?” Arthur says lowly. 

“If they wanted trouble, we wouldn’t have seen them,” Charles says. 

“Poor bastards…” Hosea raises his arm and waves, but doesn’t call out to them. “We really screwed them over down here.”

Yeah… You think to yourself, still looking at the figures on horseback. It’s not much better in the future, either. I’d tell you all the details, but then I’d be put in an asylum.

“Come on,” Hosea says. “Let’s not push our luck.”

You take your eyes away from the figures. Instead, you help Charles pack up the last of what’s meant to go in the back of the wagon. 

As Arthur and Hosea hop on the front of the wagon, you make yourself comfortable on top of a trunk. Charles sits across from you on a rectangular crate. 

“Not too far now. Stay on this trail,” Hosea instructs Arthur. “We’ll follow the river, then cut left inland.”

You look around as Hosea starts telling Arthur about how the poor the natives were treated in this area. “Stolen clean away from them it was, every blade of grass,” he says. Even though it’s wrong (reprehensible, even), you understand why white men wanted this country. It’s breathtakingly beautiful – or maybe it just looks that way because it’s not what you’re used to. It’s not asphalt and smog and a concrete jungle in place of real land that lives and breathes.

“I heard some of the army out here was particularly, uh…” Hosea thinks for a second. “Unpleasant about it.”

“Unpleasant?” Charles echoes. “How do you rob and kill people pleasantly?”

“You… say please?” You try to joke. “And thank you?”

“Something like that!” Hosea laughs. “That’s the perfect way to simplify something more complicated for the benefit of our blockheaded driver here.” 

You cringe a little. You don’t really want to be roped in while Hosea’s insulting Arthur so freely and carelessly. 

“Hey, don’t blame nothin’ on me,” Arthur says. “Never forget, y’all – this here’s a conman, born and bred. Just ‘cause it sounds fancy don’t mean he knows a damn thing ‘bout what he’s talkin’ ‘bout.”

A nice pseudo-quiet settles over all four of you. (Pseudo because while it’s true that none of you are talking, the noise of the forest around you fills that silence well.)

“So…” Arthur starts. “Charles. What happened to your tribe?”

“I don’t even know if I have one. Least, not that I can remember,” Charles says. “My father was a colored man. They told me he lived with our people for a while – a number of free men did – but… when we were forced to move from our lands, the three of us fled. I was too young to really remember much.” 

His expression hardens a little. “All my life I’ve been on the run.”

You feel your face twist a bit and a pang of empathy. Empathy – not sympathy. You don’t feel pity for Charles. You know a feeling familiar to his. Maybe you weren’t literally pushed from your land, but you sure as hell know how it feels – skipping from shelter to warming center to temporary housing to shelter.

Addicts, even child addicts and children of addicts, are liabilities. You were a liability.

Charles’ voice brings you from your thoughts. “A couple years later, some soldiers captured my mother. Took her somewhere. We never saw her again. We drifted around. My father was a very sad man, and the drink had a mean hold on him. Around thirteen… I just took off on my own.”

His eyes flit over to meet yours. “What’s that look for?”

“Sorry.” You duck your head and look off to the side. “It’s just… I understand.”

You leave it hanging at that. Then, you look at Charles out of the corner of your eye. He’s waiting for you to continue. You glance at Hosea and Arthur. Neither have turned around to look at you, but you can tell they’re waiting, too. 

“My dad wasn’t around. Like, at all,” you say. “And my mom liked to go to trap houses to get stoned out of her goddamn mind.”

“Trap houses?” Hosea echoes. “What d’you mean by that?”

A cold shock shoots down your spine as you remember that, yeah – this is 1899! And you’re from the future! And you can’t let slip that you’re from the 21st century!

“A trap house is a house where people go to buy and sell drugs,” you say as you think of a lie. “Sorry – it’s slang from the Frontier, I guess. Hasn’t made its way eastward yet.”

“Huh,” Hosea hums. “And what did you do before you found yourself here? If you don’t mind my asking.”

The dream! The dream! Your mind screams at you. Remember the dream!

“I worked for a company called Happy Trails Caravan,” you lie. “Had two mules – Rook and Bishop. I spent most of my time travelling alone, and delivering to the tribes in the Mojave.”

“And how was that?” Hosea asks. “I can’t imagine travelling all the time leaving a lot of room for friends.”

“Oh, yeah. It was nice, but still a little lonely,” you say. “I started doing more local runs across the north of the Mojave around six or seven years ago. Made friends with some of the tribes in Zion Canyon. I started working that job when I was maybe… fourteen? And spent around a decade going cross-country before I did more local deliveries.”

“That was about the age we found young Arthur here – maybe a little older,” Hosea says. “A wilder delinquent you never did see! But he learned fast.”

Arthur scoffs. “Not as fast as Marston, apparently.”

You and Charles exchange a look and he speaks up. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem between you two?”

“Eh…” Arthur shrugs. “It’s a long story.”

You cup a hand by your mouth and half-whisper to Charles. “Marston’s the wolf guy, right?”

He just nods in response. You drop your hand and lean back, looking around at the scenery again. Arthur leads the wagon right by the wall of a sheer cliff drop. You look up at the ridge and the trees silhouetted there. 

“We still headed the right way?” Arthur says. 

“That depends,” Hosea says. “Are we still heading west, in search of fortune and repose in virgin forests, as we planned? No. Are we heading in the correct direction on our desperate escape from the law, eastwards down the mountains? Yes, I believe so.”

You smile to yourself a little. You don’t really know him all that well, but so far, Hosea’s shaping up to be one of the people you can trust. If not, he’s a nice storyteller, at least. You guess that counts for something.

“You know this area?” Charles asks. 

“A little. I’ve been through a couple of times. There’s a livestock town not too far from here, called Valentine.” Hosea hooks his thumb over his shoulder at you. “Was telling them and Arthur about it earlier. Cowboys, outlaws, working girls. Our kinda place.”

“O’Driscolls?” Arthur asks. 

“Probably them too,” Hosea says.

“Pinkertons?”

“Let’s hope not.” 

“And this place we’re going…” Arthur shifts, giving the reins a light snap. “Wait, what’s it called again?”

You turn and watch the riverbed pass by as they continue to talk. The place is called Horseshoe Overlook, like Hosea told you earlier. They talk about the Blackwater job and about Dutch doing things that weren’t like him. (That confuses you a bit. He’s a nice guy, as far as you can tell. But everyone has their limit, and from what you can infer, the ferry was Dutch’s limit.) A few more sentences later, you get the distinct feeling you shouldn’t be listening in on this conversation. Instead, you turn to Charles. 

“Are you doing okay?” You ask. 

“I’m fine,” Charles says. “Do I… not look okay?”

You laugh awkwardly and scratch your cheek. “No, no. I’m just… asking to be polite.”

His eyebrows draw together a little and he frowns a bit. “Okay.”

You inhale deeply and draw your lips into a thin line, then nod, then look away. 1899 is such a weird year to be alive. Or… to be in a coma in? Like, you’re in a coma and your coma dream is set in 1899. This is so confusing.

Javier’s voice from up ahead breaks your thoughts (and keeps you from going into a spiral, really). 

“There you are, brother!” He points further down the trail. “Head in there and follow the track for a bit.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says. 

“Hey, slow up,” Javier calls. “I’ll jump on.”

Javier catches up as Arthur slows down. He hops up onto the tailgate step, holding onto the side of the wagon for extra support. You give him a smile and he nods in return. 

“Any trouble getting in here, Javier?” Hosea asks from up front. 

“No, it went well,” Javier says. “This is a good spot.”

“Excellent!” Hosea says. “I think this’ll work for us. For now, anyway.”

You lean to the side and watch as Horseshoe Overlook comes into view. It’s a nice spot, like Javier said. Some of the grass has already been worn down from all the recent moving around the people and the horses have been doing. A few tents have already been set up, but not all of them.

“Here we are, folks,” Hosea says. “Home, sweet home.”

“You weren’t wrong, Hosea!” Dutch calls from inside the camp. “This place… is perfect.”

Hosea climbs off, and you take that as a hint to get off and start unloading. Charles looks inside the trunk you were sitting on before and tells you that it’s bedding. You take it from him and head over to the tents. 

Most of the rest of the day passes like that. Everything needs to be unpacked and worked on. There was a small interruption when Dutch got up on his soapbox and gave a quick speech about everyone pitching in. He told the gang their fake backstory – that you and the rest of them are a group of itinerant workers whose factory got shut down up north. 

Evening comes quietly and quickly, and night follows it. The sheer drop on the outskirts of camp serves as a nice place to sit and think. 

The stars are so much more bright than they are back in your time. (Your time? Or is it real life? Waking life? Who knows? And, at this point, who cares?) They twinkle and blink and almost seem to dance. They group together and look like they’re spilling from one center source. The moon is nice and full on the horizon. You can see the craters and indents in her surface. It’s like you’re looking up at millions of silver nails driven into dark blue velvet, with the white head of a spike serving as the moon. It’s beautiful, for lack of better words. 

“Hey.”

You gasp and tense, glancing over your shoulder. It’s Arthur. 

You return to looking up at the sky. “Jesus… What do you want?”

“Charles told me to ask you if you’ve eaten,” Arthur says. “Well? Have you?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”

Even though you think the conversation is over, you can still feel Arthur behind you. It seems that these people either don’t know how to end a conversation or it’s just different in 1899. 

“The stars.” You glance over your shoulder at Arthur, then away again. “I’m… I’m looking at the stars. If you were curious.”

“Uh huh?” Arthur hums. “And what’s so fascinating about them stars?”

“It’s just that, uh… I couldn’t see them as well out west,” you say. “Where I’m from. Here, I can see them so clearly. They look so real.”

Like I could just reach out and touch them… I mean, this is a coma or something like that. Maybe I could. Maybe I can. 

“I mean, I know they’re real,” you say, your voice laced with laughter. “I’m not – I’m not stupid. They’re just pretty. That’s all.”

“Whatever you say,” Arthur says. 

He steps forward into your peripheral vision. You glance at him, then away, like a child after they’ve been scolded for staring. You push down the instinct to shrink away and look at him.

He takes out a hand-rolled cigarette and puts it between his lips. He strikes a match with the bottom of his boot and lights it. The cherry of the cigarette lights up his face, casting warm light and soft shadows. 

“You want one?” Arthur asks. 

“Huh?” You blink, then look away. “No. No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“If you say so,” he says. 

You can see Arthur look up at the stars out of the corner of your eye. He takes a deep drag from his cigarette, then exhales the smoke through his nose. The cherry of the cigarette flickers, then resumes glowing softly. 

You join him in looking up. Sure enough, the stars are still there, and the stars are still real. All seem to spill from a single source. The moon is a little higher above the horizon – no longer touching it, but hovering in the sky. 

 Usually, you’d never get moments like this. You’d usually work from sunrise until sunset and pick up extra shifts and overtime where you could. It’s nice to see the world like this. Natural. Raw. Even if you have to ignore Arthur’s presence extra-hard, you still manage to enjoy the moment. 

Everything’s just so slow back… then? Back now? Back now. Everything’s so slow back now. It’s like a break. A break from the jackrabbit-style, too-quick, so-fast-it’ll-give-you-a-heart-attack type of living you’re used to. A forced break, but a break nonetheless.

Breaks are nice. You watch a star flicker, twinkle, then blink into darkness. 

Maybe you should take breaks more often. 

[tubbytarchia]

Honestly, the whole idea that "if you criticize scott you're homophobic" is so terribly problematic. Basically giving him blanket clearance to do anything or say anything and if you criticize it, well, you're just homophobic. I can't imagine that's a good mindset to have as a person, let alone to see someone having as an impressionable young person.

I'm sure scott is a lovely guy in person but seeing how he acts online, frequently as a holier-than-thou type character, and looking down at others, like saying he interrupted a canon event by preventing scar and jimmy from pairing, is just upsetting. I find myself as the same as character joel in the life series, rooting for his death.

Something else that has really irritated me in the life series is how often he gifts deaths to other people. He did it so much in limited life. He literally gave every one of his deaths in secret life to someone else. And he acted so smarmy about it, too, like "oh I am taking this precious life and graciously giving it to you because otherwise I might never die to anything".

I was really happy when most of scott's deaths in wild life happened out of his control, like yes you are exactly the same as everyone else. Stop trying to act otherwise. Anywise thanks for being open about criticism. I don't know if I ever thought about toxic positivity until I saw you talking about it!

Oh I have so many thoughts on Scott's self-sacrificial nature. The toxic positivity is much more prominent on twitter but does still rear its ugly head on tumblr too. Especially concerning Scott's character, which I agree with you on. Him giving up his lives is doubly interesting and in the same vein frustrating to me because half the time it doesn't necessarily even leave the recipient better off

Gem did not want to kill him in SL, but because he has a martyr complex, he made it happen anyway, disregarding Gem's hesitancy. I'm sorry but to me, in that moment he was thinking about himself first and Gem second, which is how I think he regards every single one of his sacrifices. Especially when you contrast that with the Mounders, where Pearl rooted for Bdubs (and Joel but mostly Bdubs) and suggested herself being killed for Bdubs once things got dicey, but it never coming to it. Pearl so deeply wanted for Bdubs to win, and Bdubs, although not very confident, wanted to as well for Pearl. There was never any pressure involved in that unlike Scott's last minute and frankly kind of random sacrifice. He wasn't that low on hearts and Gem would have stood a much better chance against Pearl and Scar with him by his side

In Wild Life, Pearl didn't feel good about taking Scott's life, and Scott basically said he was doing it to quell Pearl. Something also about the fact that Pearl wanted to decide how to do it, just as some remnant of control when she really didn't have any for almost the entirity of Wild Life

In Limited Life, Scott was ready to give up that life he'd promised Jimmy, but then used it to try and coax Jimmy into telling him he loved him. And Jimmy has had a few other people give up their lives for him, Bdubs out of selflessness and Ren out of a promise for an allyship. And yet the only sacrifice Jimmy has even referenced after the fact, is the one Joel had planned but didn't even succeed with. That holds more importance to Jimmy than Scott's sacrifice, which I think says something

And of course, Scott blowing himself up in Double Life. Because Pearl deserved the win more than he did, he says without giving Pearl much opportunity to speak, taking control of the ending that was supposed to belong to Pearl

It's all very interesting to analyse, his character is super intricate and unique in this sense, but it does unfortunately become more frustrating paired with his unchanging selective framing of events and putting down of other characters through no wrongdoing of their own etc

[theonlyqualitytrash]

No need to thank me, Berry—honestly, you should be thanking yourself! (Really, everyone should thank you for requesting more fics like this!) When I saw your post asking for more Fyodor winter fics, I just knew I had to do something about it. I couldn’t resist! :>

I’ll try not to ramble too much:

Honestly, I haven't seen many Fyodor x Reader stories set in cozy winter settings either, and I wanted to make sure this one felt original. ;-; I was a bit uncertain about the flour battle scene at first, because I know not everyone has read the manga, and they might find it a little out of character for Fyodor. But this is the same guy who threw eggs at a wall while in prison. If he can be a bit silly in those moments, why can’t he be that way here? (I can't even remember the chapter—it’s been so long)

And yes—yes, I am totally stealing that idea for next Christmas. I am already planning a mountain retreat, cozy vacation-type fic with Fyodor and the reader. You’ve made me so excited that I’m already impatient for next year! I’m like, “Wait, I have to wait 365 days for this?!” You need to stop giving me ideas. >:( (please don't stop giving me ideas)

But really, really, don't mind me while I sob over how sweet your message was. It honestly fills my heart to know that it made you feel so warm and happy. Because that's exactly what I wanted—to give you a bit of cozy, heartwarming joy. If a fluff fic doesn’t have you rolling around on your bed, screaming and crying happy tears, then I haven’t done my job properly. :> I’m so hopeful that our friendship will bloom into the next year. Here’s a huge, comforting virtual hug from me to you ^^ hug

---

Gosh, what a deeply hurtful thing for them to say about you. I really hope they realize the impact of their words and properly apologize because that kind of comment isn’t something anyone should have to endure. I’ve been in a similar position before, where people that were close to me said things that just didn’t sit right, and it can really take a toll on your spirit.

I completely understand the fear of letting someone in, especially when you’ve never had experience with dating and love. It’s terrifying to open up and risk being hurt. But I want you to know that people like us—those who crave love in a very specific way, who want something deep and true—are not naive or foolish. If anything, it makes us stronger, more aware of what we deserve. We’re not settling for less, and that’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.

I believe in love coming to us in all sorts of forms and at different times. So, as much as it can feel daunting, don’t ever doubt that love can find you, and it will come in a way that honors your heart. You deserve a love that meets you where you are, that sees you fully and unconditionally.

I’m so glad to hear that you’re not letting their words shake you. Your spirit, your kindness, your willingness to believe in something better—those are beautiful qualities. Keep holding onto that hope and trust that the right people will see and appreciate that in you.

🤍🌻

P.S. Yes, the title does translate to Blessed Winter, and I’m so glad you caught that! ^^ Every Fyodor fic I will ever write will have a Latin title, mostly because they’re just cool, but also because I headcanon him as someone who knows Latin. Plus, it’s a little homage to his timeless nature. He’s been around so long that Latin feels fitting.

Beata hiems - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: Holiday special—On a chilly winter morning, you and Fyodor set out together for a festive task, finding warmth in each other's company as you navigate the day.

No warnings, just fluff

A/N: Happy holidays, everyone! The most important thing during times like these is spending quality moments with the people you love. I realized I’ve written a lot of angst lately (and not ideal situations) that I almost forgot I can write pleasant things too :> Also, I ate way too much zacusca while writing this...

Word count: 3,300

Both you and Fyodor woke early, a habit born of necessity, yet today carried a rare air of anticipation. The quiet of the morning felt different—not the product of lingering work or duty, but a purposeful calm you both had sought together. The shared goal ahead of you—choosing the perfect yolka for the season—lent an unspoken warmth to the air, even as winter’s chill lingered outside. 

The sun had barely risen, painting the sky with strokes of pink and orange as you and Fyodor prepared to set out. You wrapped your scarf hastily against the cold, eager to step outside but not prepared for the bite of the crisp winter air. The moment you crossed the threshold, the frost nipped at your cheeks, and you tugged the scarf higher, but it was no match for Fyodor’s keen eye. 

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the soft crunch of snow underfoot. His gloved hand reached for the scarf you had wrapped hurriedly around yourself. He adjusted it, deftly tucking the fabric snugly against your neck. His touch lingered—more delicate than necessary—and his sharp violet eyes softened in the golden light of the sunrise. 

“You’re always so particular,” you said softly, your voice carrying more fondness than teasing. 

A faint smile ghosted across his lips, one only you were privileged to see. “It’s merely practical. Keeping you warm spares me the concern.” Though his tone remained calm, the undercurrent of care made your chest tighten pleasantly. 

“Practical, yes,” you said with a smile, a playful impulse to tease him flickering in your mind but quickly fading as you gently brushed your fingers against his hand. “But thank you.”

His raised eyebrow and the slight curve of his lips suggested he’d noticed your reaction, but he said nothing, instead gesturing toward the road ahead. “Let’s go. The trees won’t choose themselves.” 

--- 

The tree market was alive with the bustling energy of the season. Vendors called out their wares, offering everything from firs and pines to handmade garlands and wooden ornaments. The scent of mulled wine and roasted nuts mixed with the sharp, earthy tang of pine, creating an atmosphere that was as festive as it was chaotic. 

You walked alongside Fyodor, arm in arm, his quiet presence shielding you from the full bite of the winter cold. His long coat and composed demeanor made him seem almost impervious to the freezing air, while you found yourself fiddling with your gloves and scarf for warmth. Yet his close proximity—so steady and reassuring—seemed to cast a blanket of warmth around you. 

“Look at this one,” you said, pointing to a tall, lush pine with branches that stretched wide like welcoming arms. You tilted your head, imagining it standing proudly in the corner of your living room, adorned with sparkling lights and delicate ornaments. 

Fyodor’s gaze swept over the tree with a critical eye, his gloved hands tucked neatly behind his back as he stepped closer. “It’s sturdy enough,” he remarked, reaching out briefly to test the firmness of the trunk. “But do we truly need something so ostentatious?” 

You chuckled, the sound warm despite the chill. “It’s not ostentatious; it’s festive. And it’ll look perfect with the handmade ornaments we’re about to pick out.” 

His lips quirked into a subtle smirk, the faintest flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Handmade ornaments? Are you assembling an art gallery in our living room?” 

“No,” you replied with a laugh, nudging his arm gently. “Just something unique for our tree. Help me find the perfect one.” 

The two of you wandered through the aisles, debating over height, fullness, and symmetry. Fyodor’s meticulous approach—inspecting every detail, pointing out subtle flaws in the trees you favored—somehow complemented your more intuitive choices. Where he saw imperfections, you saw character; where he sought balance, you admired the charm. 

Eventually, his resolve softened, and he let out a soft sigh, gesturing toward the very tree you’d first pointed out. “This one, then,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of indulgence. “If only to avoid spending the entire morning debating in the snow.” 

You grinned, stepping forward to examine the tree one last time, your fingers brushing against the soft needles. “I knew you’d come around.” 

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, and though he said nothing, the faint upward tilt of his lips betrayed a rare contentment. Together, you flagged down a worker to help carry the tree, already envisioning the warmth it would bring to your home. 

--- 

The shelves at the decoration stall were a flood of color: glass baubles, painted wooden ornaments, strings of beads, and garlands in every shade imaginable. The scent of pine mingled with that of beeswax candles, adding a rustic charm to the lively atmosphere. Your fingers lingered on a set of painted ornaments shaped like matryoshka dolls, their intricate floral patterns catching the light as you turned them over. 

“These are beautiful,” you said, holding one up for Fyodor to inspect, the delicate ornament resting gently in your palm. 

He took it from your hand with care, his long fingers brushing yours as he did so. He examined the ornament thoughtfully, tilting it slightly to catch the light. “I do like them,” he admitted. “But do we plan for the tree to carry only traditional designs?” 

“Not at all,” you replied, already picturing a mix of old-world charm and contemporary elegance. “I thought we’d pair them with something simpler, like gold and white baubles, to balance it out. What do you think?” 

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, his violet eyes reflecting a softness that contrasted with his usual guarded expression. “Elegant, yet practical. A perfect mix, really.” 

Pleased, you placed the ornaments into your basket and continued to wander through the stalls together, occasionally pausing to admire other unique finds. Your eyes lit up at a garland of shimmering beads hanging high above, just out of your reach. Before you could even try, Fyodor stepped forward, his movements fluid and precise, and plucked it effortlessly. He draped it lightly over his arm before turning to you, his expression unreadable but somehow fond. 

“Teamwork,” he commented dryly, earning a quiet laugh from you. 

As you browsed further, a bright red ornament shaped like a cheerful bear caught your attention. Without hesitation, you slipped it into the basket with a mischievous grin. When Fyodor noticed it moments later, he plucked it out and held it up between two fingers, his expression hovering between disapproval and amusement. 

“This one will disrupt your balance,” he remarked, the faintest trace of dry humor in his voice. 

“But it sparks joy,” you countered with a soft laugh, tilting your head as if daring him to disagree. 

He regarded the ornament for a moment longer before sighing, his faint smirk returning. “Unnecessary distractions,” he muttered, though he placed it back in the basket without further comment. “Still, it’s not without charm.” 

His quiet concession made your smile widen as you linked your arm with his again. “Thank you, Fyodor.” 

He glanced at you briefly, his eyes softening before he turned his attention back to the rows of decorations. “I simply indulge your whims,” he said, though the subtle warmth in his tone betrayed him. 

--- 

Back home, the tree stood proudly in the corner of the living room, its presence filling the space with the earthy scent of pine. You began unpacking the decorations while Fyodor set up the stand with the quiet precision you had come to expect from him. Even the simple act of adjusting the tree seemed graceful in his hands. 

“Before we start decorating, why don’t we drink some eggnog?” you suggested, stepping back to admire the tree’s placement. 

Fyodor glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It will keep you warm after being in the cold. I’ll prepare it.” 

In the kitchen, the two of you worked in quiet harmony. Fyodor took charge of whisking egg yolks and sugar until they turned pale and creamy, his movements deliberate and exact. Meanwhile, you heated milk and spices on the stove, the warm aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg filling the air. The rhythmic sounds of his whisking and the occasional soft crackle from the stove added to the serene atmosphere. 

Unable to resist the tranquility of the moment, you stepped behind him and wrapped your arms lightly around his waist, leaning your head against his back. His steady movements didn’t falter, but his voice softened as he acknowledged your presence. 

“Comfortable?” he asked, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. 

“Very,” you murmured, letting the warmth of the scene seep into you. You lingered there, feeling the quiet strength in his posture, before he turned slightly, nudging you gently to take the mug he had prepared. Reluctantly, you let go, accepting the drink with a soft smile. 

As he handed you the mug with a faint smirk, his violet eyes glinted with quiet satisfaction. You sipped the warm drink, savoring the rich, spiced flavor. 

“It’s truly perfect,” you said, meeting his gaze over the rim of your mug. “You have a talent for making even simple things feel special.” 

His expression softened, and he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Perhaps it’s the company that elevates the experience, my dear.” 

Your smile widened as you set your mug down and began gathering ingredients for cookies. “Ready for the next round of teamwork?” 

Fyodor raised an eyebrow as you tossed an apron in his direction. “You expect me to assist with this?” 

“Yes,” you said, tying your own apron and flashing him a playful grin. “You’re a fast learner.” 

The two of you began mixing ingredients, your approaches naturally complementing each other, creating a rhythm that felt both efficient and effortless. As you sifted flour into a bowl, another mischievous idea struck. Without warning, you flicked a pinch of flour at him, leaving a pale dusting on his sleeve. 

He paused, slowly turning his head to regard you with an expression of calm menace. “You’re playing a dangerous game, lyubov’...” 

Laughing, you grabbed another pinch. “Am I?” 

With a swift motion, Fyodor dipped his fingers into the flour and smudged a streak across your cheek. You gasped, your eyes wide with mock indignation. As you reached for a small handful in retaliation, his hand closed lightly over yours, stopping you mid-motion. His violet eyes gleamed with a quiet gaiety. 

“Dear...” He spoke slowly, as if daring you to continue. “Do you really wish to escalate this?”  his voice calm, though the faintest trace of a smirk betrayed him. 

Of course, mischief took the better of you, and in the blink of an eye, the kitchen erupted into chaos. Flour flew through the air in soft, white clouds, settling like snow on the countertops, the floor, and both of you. Laughter spilled from your lips, a sweet, carefree sound that danced in the space between you.

The aprons did little to catch the fallout, now more a futile shield than anything useful. It didn’t matter. The room was filled with the rhythm of playful war—dashes of flour as ammunition, mischievous glances exchanged between you both, and the occasional breathless chuckle escaping your lips as one of you narrowly avoided a flour bomb.  

When you finally waved the white flag, Fyodor stepped closer, his voice calm but laced with quiet authority. “Do not start a war you cannot win,” he murmured, brushing a bit of flour from your hair. Despite his stern words, the glimmer of mirth in his eyes betrayed his amusement. 

“Then let's declare a truce,” you said, smiling up at him. His gaze softened as he nodded, and together, you returned to baking with a newfound warmth between you. 

--- 

After dinner and tidying up, the two of you finally began decorating the tree. The room was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of the fire in the hearth, casting a soft, golden light over everything. The air smelled faintly of pine and the lingering scent of the meal, creating an intimate, peaceful atmosphere as you carefully unpacked the ornaments and strings of lights. 

“The gold garland should go first,” Fyodor suggested, his fingers brushing over the shimmering strands before he draped them with precision along the branches. 

“Quite the expert on this decorating business,” you teased with a smile, stepping closer to adjust a section he’d already placed, your fingers brushing his as you did.

“I simply prefer a bit of order over chaos,” he replied with his usual calm, though a hint of amusement flickered at the corner of his lips, betraying his composed demeanor.

As you both worked together, the sounds of soft laughter and the faint rustle of ornaments filled the air. You held up a small ornament shaped like a bell, turning it in your hand with a questioning look. “Where should this go?” 

Fyodor stepped closer, his presence quiet but commanding. His hand brushed yours as he gently took the bell from you, his fingers warm against your skin. “Here,” he said, his voice softer than usual, placing it with deliberate care near the center of the tree. 

You hummed in satisfaction, stepping back to admire the spot he had chosen, feeling a small, unexpected warmth at how he treated each ornament with such attention. Reaching into the box again, you pulled out a bear ornament—one you’d picked up earlier that day. The little bear was a reminder of your shared experiences, and it felt like a quiet piece of your heart woven into the holiday. 

Without a word, Fyodor took it from you with a reverence that spoke volumes. His gaze lingered on the ornament for a moment, his fingers caressing it gently before he placed it with quiet care on the tree, the gesture speaking more than any words could. 

You reached into the box again, this time pulling out a sprig of mistletoe. Holding it playfully above your head, you couldn’t resist the chance to tease him once more. “And where does this go?” 

Fyodor’s eyes flicked to the mistletoe, and then back to you. The air between you shifted subtly, the playful tension between you both thickening. “A kiss?” he murmured, his voice laced with something deeper, something unspoken. 

“It’s bad luck if we don’t,” you replied, your voice teasing yet holding a hint of sincerity, knowing he wouldn’t let something so trivial go unacknowledged. 

Fyodor’s lips curled into a rare, genuine smile. He leaned in slowly, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours as his lips brushed against yours in a kiss that was both tender and featherlight. His kiss—how can one explain it? It felt like he had nothing to lose. Like his heartbeat was yours. Like someone who has just learned a foreign language and can only speak in the present tense, with you as the subject. Only now, only you.

The moment seemed to stretch, the world outside of the two of you fading away as he pulled back just enough to murmur softly against your lips, his voice low and warm. 

“We wouldn’t want that kind of luck,” he whispered, his smile lingering as his eyes met yours, holding you in a quiet moment of shared connection. 

--- 

The tree stood proudly in the corner of the living room, its soft, twinkling lights casting a warm glow throughout the space. The fire crackled in the hearth, its flames flickering and stretching across the walls, filling the room with a comforting, intimate atmosphere. You and Fyodor were curled up on the couch, a soft blanket draped over your legs, the heat from the fire adding a quiet coziness to the evening. 

Mugs of warm eggnog rested in your hands, the rich, spiced aroma filling the air as you took a slow sip, savoring the creamy warmth. Fyodor sat beside you, his hand wrapped around his own mug, a soft, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. There was a sense of peacefulness between you, the quiet sound of the fire and your soft laughter making everything feel still and right. 

You shifted a little, the anticipation bubbling in your chest as you leaned toward him, holding out a small gift. “I got you something,” you said quietly, your voice carrying a hint of excitement despite the calm of the evening. 

Fyodor’s violet eyes glinted as he glanced at you, eyebrow raised slightly in that characteristic way of his. “For me?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and glee. 

You nodded and passed him the neatly wrapped box. He took it with that ever-so-gentle touch of his, unwrapping the gift with careful precision, his eyes flicking between the paper and your face. When the box was open, he held up the fountain pen you had chosen for him—sleek, elegant, with intricate golden details that caught the firelight just right. 

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the pen’s smooth surface. “I’ll put it to good use,” he added, his usual stoicism softening further. 

“I know you enjoy writing,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips. “I thought it might be something you’d appreciate.” 

Fyodor looked at the pen for a long moment, his eyes dark with thought, before meeting your gaze. “It is perfect,” he said, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he added, “Thank you.” 

You grinned, feeling a warm rush of happiness at his words. “I’m glad you like it.” 

He cradled your cheek, his fingers tracing the soft skin with a tenderness born of awe. Then, his expression shifting to one of quiet amusement. He reached for a box of his own, setting his mug down beside him. You watched with curiosity as he gave you your gift.

When you opened it, you froze, your heart skipping a beat at the sight. Inside was a small, simple folder containing a series of documents. You blinked in confusion, slowly reaching for them as Fyodor’s eyes held your gaze with a steady, almost amused calm. 

“It’s a bit unconventional,” Fyodor said, his voice low and steady, “but you mentioned once that you would like to escape the city.” 

You unfolded the papers slowly, eyes widening as you realized what they were—legal documents, papers that transferred ownership of an entire mountain to you. A piece of land. A whole mountain. He had given you a literal escape from the city, just as you had hinted at so long ago. 

“A mountain?” you whispered, your voice almost incredulous. 

Fyodor’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You said you wanted to get away. I thought this might be a... fitting solution. Perhaps you’ll find it more peaceful.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity and thoughtfulness of the gift almost too much to comprehend. “A whole mountain…” you echoed, still in shock. “Well, I’ll have to plan my next vacation carefully now.” 

Fyodor’s smile deepened, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “I suspect you will.” 

You leaned into him, shaking your head in disbelief but also deeply touched by the enormity of his gift. “It’s… incredible,” you said, your voice soft and full of wonder. “I never imagined you’d actually go so far.” 

“I’ve always been one for unconventional gestures,” Fyodor remarked smoothly, his tone laced with that familiar calm but with a subtle warmth. He leaned in slightly, his lips grazing your temple as he placed a gentle kiss there. 

As you sat together, the warmth of the fire and the quiet serenity of the evening enveloping you, you realized that no material gift could compare to this moment. The mountain—while impressive—was just a symbol of the depth of his consideration, of how well he knew you, how carefully he listened to the quietest of your desires. 

You pulled the blanket around you both, sipping your eggnog as you let the peaceful atmosphere settle around you. Fyodor rested his arm around you, pulling you a little closer, and for a while, you just sat in contented silence, letting the fire and the quiet of the room fill the space between you. 

It was, without question, the kind of day dreams are made out of.

[skeletalheartattack]

Subtitles below the keep reading:

Hey you, shut your mouth and look at my paw! DON'T FORGET!! [Incomprehensible sped up gibberish] This... Journey... Money... Loads of coins. [Incomprehensible sped up gibberish] What-about-her? What-about-her? ... What-about-her? 'She still like me? [Quiet but mostly incomprehensible gibberish about subtitles] O P S O P N O-1 1. Here's the spell: Love the mermaid, for sure! The mermaid is HAPPY! Okay! It's pretty normal for a fish, right? Guuuyyyssss, beeeee caaarefuuulll wiiiiith theeee GIIIIIRRRRLSSS!!! [Incomprehensible] Oh! Silly! Oh yes! Lamb chop boy! [Incomprehensible] [Very quietly, while white noise is playing over it] Goood eevening, aand weeelcome too the shoooowww... [In the background] Ohhh, mooney!

[wormchaser]

you are complaining about complaining too much while complaining about the fact that maybe people dont like you because you complain too much while complaining about being alone. just stop complaining and do something about it. talk to people. reach out. dont just wait for someone to come to you first.

i have tried reaching out to different people in the past year or so but it never works. i understand its my own fault for letting relationships decay because of my own insecurities and issues but that doesn't mean i can just will myself to think or believe different things about myself. it's a self fulfilling prophecy ; i think people don't like me so i don't reach out so people don't like me etc . i am sure you do not want to hear me list all the things i want to say in response so i will put them in the tags.

[solei-eclipse]

okay. hello guys. my bad for not responding to stuff or being as active recently, had a lot of work to be done and other stuff to focus on that took a lot of my time. I wanted to make more art, but I unfortunately had to put that energy into other things (which got to the point where I could not put them off any longer and had to stay working on it). I know I missed a lot of stuff and I'm sorry for it

[icewindandboringhorror]

"We can get through this by working together, reach out to your friends, community is all we have, a social network will be your security in the world, now is the time to lean on others!"

I do agree, and it's scientifically sound (pretty sure there is data about how people with better social networks live longer and etc) but also....augh..... what about the severe social issues, difficulty to leave the house, physical issues which lead to like zero socialization energy a majority of the time, etc. etc. Social support can be a replacement for structural support, but.. I guess I just wish it didn't have to be. Community is extremely difficult to build, even moreso if you're someone who has issues with social cues or group conversations or even just being around others in the first place. And blah, nuance, of course I'm just complaining or maybe being too negative or maybe misunderstanding, but, I hardly have the energy to brush my hair once every 2 months.. how am I supposed to maintain a wide social network and be active in a Community and Join Groups lol... sometimes it kind of feels like "er.. well if thats my only option then...... ruh roh". It's overwhelming

[dangerous-advantage]

(Image description below 'read more' line.)

[Image ID: A four-by-four alignment chart on a white background with text descriptions to the left and to the top of the squares.

The top left description reads, "seems like they'd be good at parenting." The top right description reads, "seems like they'd be bad at parenting."

Then, from the top down, to the left of the squares, the other set of descriptions reads: "excellent child rearing instincts," and "never trust them with a child in your life."

Each of the four squares contains an image of a different character. At the top left is an image of Lan Wangji of the Mo Dao Zu Shi donghua. He sits between the descriptors "seems like they'd be good at parenting," and "excellent child rearing instincts."

In the top right square sits an image of Wei Wuxian, also of the Mo Dao Zu Shi donghua. He sits between the junction of "seems like they'd be bad at parenting" and "excellent child rearing instincts."

In the bottom left square is an image of Xie Lian from the Tian Guan Ci Fu manhua. He occupies the square with the captions, "seems like they'd be good at parenting" and "never trust them with a child in your life."

Finally, in the bottom left square, sits an image of Hua Cheng from the Tian Guan Ci Fu manhua. He occupies the junction between "seems like they'd be bad at parenting" and "never trust them with a child in your life". /End ID]

[al-luviec]

still haven't moved on from zane in this episode (aka I hit tag limit again and am unhappy about it)

[sherlock-is-ace]

.

[thoughtpeek]

I'VE FINALLY FINISHED BROTHERSHIP IT WAS SOOOOO GOOD!!!!!!!

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

The Saint of Bright Doors

a surreal Sri Lankan fantasy about colonialism, revolution, mixing fantasy with the modern world

follows a man raised by his mother to kill his father, a god-like cult leader

but as an adult he puts aside his life of violence and moves to the city for a quiet life

he becomes fascinated with ‘bright doors’ around the city that never open and have no other side, and joins a group studying them to find out more

and a support group for those with divine heritage that becomes increasingly revolutionary, until the task he was made for reemerges and his life upends

[impulsivedecisionsat3am]

god put me on this earth to experience joy and happiness and yet he forces to experience the impending thought of joining the workforce

[mcalhenwrites]

I'm not going to pretend it doesn't make me angry that I spend months and years trying to peddle my work to make ends meet, that I spend so much time mentioning my books and comms and everything, and people ignore that consisently... But the moment I finally break under the hopelessness - when it's obvious that it's fucking futile, that almost no one deems my work good enough to share with anyone else - suddenly they're concerned and scolding me. I'm working several jobs, bathing, generally keeping things clean, and I do this with several health problems including chronic pain. I found out that one of my cysts is growing and I may need to have it surgically removed. Which means potentially missing work to recover. Which means more money I lose. I spend so much time crawling out of the hole and it goes ignored, but the moment I just give up bc I don't have any strength left, suddenly that's my fault and I'm mentally sick. And that kind of makes me wish my entire situation upon people, and when they whine that it's hard, well fuck you, you thought I could ace it so surely you can, babe! I hate being angry about this, but it's just so exhausting to tell people who accuse me of not trying that I HAVE I HAVE SO FUCKING HARD AND YOU DID NOT PAY ATTENTION THEN Or you know you're attempting to gaslight me by claiming I didn't try despite that I obviously have worked my ass off trying, and that's so much fucking worse

[doctordelicate-touch]

Hi!! Quick sorry for inserting myself into every single conversation ever!! Okay bye bye!!

[honeysuckledreams]

Also since I am being too personal and there is a slim chance one or two members from that old college friend group might see this, in bombshell news Ren and I are no longer friends, and Ren and Fed (now Fae) are divorced. Ren and I ended late December 2022, so it's been 1.5 years and I am finally, finally starting to feel better.

In my version, I couldn't emotionally support Ren through their divorce anymore, and I needed a break from talking about it literally 4x a week. They found out I talked to Fae about the divorce after I set that boundary with them (because that was the third time Fae ever asked for insight about the divorce, and it was still almost too much) and Ren ghosted me! My best friend of seven years ghosted me because I set a boundary and wasn't capable of emotionally supporting them anymore. We literally talked every single day for our whole friendship before that point.

After 2 months of occasionally reaching out to them and getting radio silence, I ended our friendship. The ending was mutual in the last conversation we had.