note: in honour of the blackberry bush outside my window and a reminder that my aches will fade
warnings: sickness, bones, hurt with comfort (?) poetry yikes, idk how to tag this, please let me know if i should add anything
it used to be a routine, every autumn morning you'd be the first one up, out of bed before arthur could even register it – cold and crisp air greeting you, a comfortable burn as you picked blackberries.
greed wasn’t you; always taking less than your share. hands stained deep crimson, pockets full of berries, the unripe left alone to soak in the sun for another day – you returned to arthur. he'd smile, not fully understand the joy, but he indulged, gladly accepting the berries you shared with him – melting in your mouth, they tasted like sunlight and salvation.
this autumn was different, bones aching, chest heavy, dark clouds obscuring everything. the bed felt like a prison you could not escape, your body rotting – perhaps you'd grow flowers, become something endearing once again. arthur couldn’t stay forever, tough he did: watching you writhe from the ache of your bones. it was a burden, a sickness belonging to you alone, a part you rather burry and suffer alone, tough impossible now.
arthur watching and waiting.
the next autumn morning was empty, arthur was gone, and you fell into the familiar grasp of agony. mind fuzzy as bones rotate underneath your skin, like they do not fit, like they want to escape – the same way you want to escape this bed and cannot. the headache takes root, and you swear this is your last day.
then, arms around you, warmth and worry shaking you from the depths of your darkness, cradling you as they carry you, cold air nibbles at your lungs, chest aching from the intrusion – despite pain you can still breathe, and so you do: slow and steady, head pressed against arthur's chest – finding strength in his heartbeat.
you mutter something – "leave me" – and he replies – "no" – his defiance takes hold, offending your bones, and they turn to argue, though you have already taken his word to heart: and there they will live, and there they grown – and you know once more that you are not something to leave, not something to fester and fade and fail and falter – even if you might ache, you may never abandon yourself.
when he stops, it’s in front of the blackberry bush: it stands there in all its glory, half-eaten, and rotting – still waiting for you, for nature knows your desire for them. mustering up the strength to pluck them – another ache you have to endure, and you do so, for you are strong. the blackberries are still soft and sweet, with a hint of winter – though they whisper praise as you eat them.
and you know the sickness might feel forever, but it will fade: for you are not your sickness – it does not and will not define all that you are – for you are everything.
Request: perhaps Charthur, Charles taking care of sick Arthur?
stay with me
arthur morgan x charles smith
synopsis: arthur is sick n' stubborn, charles makes sure he rests
note: charthur!! been waiting for a request for them <3 short n' sweet. was a little bit stuck on this tbh, hope you enjoy !!
warning: fever, sickness, fatigue, guilt
arthur morgan was a stubborn bastard – even with a headache that could kill a man – arthur pushed himself to run errands. it had been going on for a week now – fatigue was catching up to him, and yet he refused the rest his bones desperately ached for. he did not see the point in resting when all his drams were plagued by a cruel fever, making the terrors in his heart seem all to real, leading to multiple nights awake.
walking across camp felt like tracking through the impossible deep snow up at colter. each step made his head ache – like it was caving in on itself. he gritted his teeth, refusing to give in now. he'd pushed this far, he could push a little more. vision hazy around the edges he made his way towards his horse. he didn't have time for sickness. dutch needed him, the gang needed him.
"heading out?" Charles' familiar voice made arthur hesitate. the simple words were just a disguise for a deeper concern living within charles, the true question ringing more like: aren’t you supposed to be resting?
"'m fine charles" arthur grumbled, mustering up strength to lift the saddle up on the horse. hands working clumsily, securing it lazily: even his horse knew the fatigue in arthur, shifting worried. charles watched, quietly observing– arthur worked slowly, almost out of breath already. charles recognised the stubbornness, understood the refusal for rest, he reached out, placing a grounding hand on arthur's shoulder.
no words were spoken, yet the conversation flowed between them. understanding like never before.
arthur trailed behind charles, almost guilty for allowing himself to rest – allowing himself to accept the kindness charles offered. he sniffled, sadness or sickness – didn’t matter, charles only lead arthur back to bed.
darkness swallowed arthur and charles upon entering the tent, though arthur wasn’t frightened this time. charles was his protector, no terror dared to lurk in these shadows, no horrors even considered bothering arthur.
"stay" arthur whispered, comfortable speaking his desire in their little hideaway.
may i request some arthur and john (separate) with a gn!reader? they somehow discover that the reader randomly disappears from camp to go float or sit in some random body of water…they just HAVE to take a break from being their usual sanguine self to be gloomy and pensive and dramatic or else they can’t survive!!!!!! 💔💔💔 maybe with some friends to lovers vibes if that’s possible…can be headcanons or anything, angsty, silly, etc. it’s up to you!! ty in advance YAY<33333
lake of sorrows
arthur morgan || john marston x gender-neutral!reader
synopsis: you flee from camp to visit the lake, arthur or john follows you
note: AHHH REQUEST, don’t question my poetry, thanks <3 i was so tempted to write merman arthur and john… anyway, enjoy <3
night carries you fast, delivering you swiftly to the lake: water greets you curiously – wondering what sorrows you will share tonight. it eats your optimism, allowing you to shed layers of your sanguine self – allowing you to be gloomy and pensive, allowing you survival. sorrow lives within you, and the water gladly listens. your soul – draped in grief– sobs wildly, adding the endless pond.
you sink deeper, water cradles you – it listens patiently as you tell of tricks and traitors, wit and weakness, blood and bones. your clothes cling to you – soft and scarce – the water hugging you. how wonderful it was to be understood, to be heard: for something to offer solitude and stability.
the world's a beast of burden, you have been carrying it for so long – you wear your sorrow like crown of gold – heavy on your head, on your soul, yet you never falter under the weight – ruler of sorrow. you need this sorrow to stay within you, need to feel it – need to let it feed and fester inside you, so you can keep your facade. in the lake sorrow is the only emotion you allow yourself, for while it is tremendous and treacherous; it is familiar. aches and anguish mean nothing when you are cradled by something you know – something that will not falter when you break.
moonlight illuminates your path ahead, you sink deeper into the water, howling with the wind, truth clawing it’s way out of you – laughing and crying, it’s everything you need. you let it all go, and you can finally breathe. with your head underwater the world is muted, the only sound being the overflow – the night lingers soft on your fingertips as you draw patterns through the water, your mind travels to somewhere else – somewhere peaceful.
staring into the blackness of the water, the thrill of knowing how alone you are, how unknown you are – to the world and yourself, and yet this is the truest you have ever been. your heart sing, and the water hum along – melodies merging and twining together: it is witnessing you.
then, ever so faintly, an unfamiliar heartbeat wafts through the water, echoing helplessly and wholeheartedly. it doesn’t belong to you – ripples from the shore crack the reflection of moonlight, crack the illusion of peace. breaking surface you're facing the source of the disruption: it is…
arthur morgan – awkward as always, few steps into the lake watching you. he's hesitating, sensing he might have intruded, curiosity denies him the escape of turning tails. you smile, welcoming him – arthur removes his hat, leaves it at the shore, like this lake is somehow sacred.
"ye was not in camp" he mumbled, gaze fixed on you as he wanders thought the water – he floats easily, so gracefully – like he has done this before, perhaps he has. arthur might not admit it but he is a man of wonder, you have seen it in his journal – he'll find softness in everything and add it to his pages, to his soul. water swirls around you, neither of you fight it: face to face, stripped of your masks. arthur allows himself to feel your sorrow, to understand.
you did need to explain yourself to him, for he understood. his hand found yours, giving it a squeeze.
"we will be alright" he promised you both, his words rang true and honest, making you smile. such a foolish man making promises he cannot keep, but it’s a wonderful dream – a dream you will believe tonight.
"we will" you confirm, thumb running over his cheek, wiping away his tears. he presses against your palm, giving you his tears, his longing. It’s soft, and you are both crying, the water lovingly drinking it all in.
john marston – knee-deep into the lake, striding towards you, water splashing as he moves – clumsily. how far would he go for you? the water around him pulses with nervous energy, he’s fighting it – terrified he keeps going. you stand, steady, tilting your head curiously – what a strange man.
"martson" you wonder, and he visibly relaxes: determination melts from his face, replaced with embarrassment – flustered cheeks and red ears. he must’ve thought you were drowning, must’ve meant to save you – it’s a sweetness you can’t really describe. it makes you giggle, and he looks away, realising what he has done – soon you are both laughing.
"ye was drownin'" he muttered, explaining himself, making you smile wider – and when you laugh again, so does he, nodding along as you coo over him, a teasing banter floats between you. the water humms, giggling at you two, swirling around in a playful manner.
you do not need saving, but he is so willing to offer it – to be by your side.
though his fear makes him hesitate, when reality reaches him, it’s your turn to save him: taking his hand, you guide him into the water, teaching him to trust it, teaching him to swim – hands intertwined, future slowly stitching together – he knows this is what he wants.
synopsis: arthur morgan faces the dangers and wonders of a rotting world while searching for the gang // rdr2 undead nightmare but my take on it
note: i love writing events. combining day 18: "horse to water" from yeehawgust 2025 by @yeehawgust with day 18: "crossover" from the 2025 au-gust writing challenge by @augustwritingchallenge
this is my first time writing any sort of au, yikes. i have such limited knowledge about tlou, just love clickers and fungi! don’t mind the warped timeline, it’s au time!
warnings: isolation, infection, runners, gore, decay, guns, sickness, death, angst
this world is cruel – treachery and tragedy lurking behind every corner. arthur morgan has befriended this cruelty by now, he knew the unfairness like the back of his hand. yet nothing could’ve prepared arthur for the outbreak.
the sun hung high, following the lone traveller passing through the decaying land. the vast emptiness between the quarantine zones was unforgiving, seemingly stretching on forever – small towns were rare to come by, and even rarer to have resources left, arthur was running low: he had to stop, his search for the gang had to wait.
before the outbreak this town would’ve been full of people – living their lives, good or bad. now; nature had re-claimed this land. ivy and moss clawing its way up buildings, covering them in plant matter, slowly swallowing it. the road is cracked, and water has flooded most of it: making it the perfect environment for wild grass to grow – the occasional pink and purple adorn the grass – milkweed and hyacinth.
no one in sight – the town is completely abandoned, a ghost town that made something in arthur ache, these people were gone, forever: it was unfair – it was life.
arthur was used to it now – the loneliness, it clung to him like dust covering old objects, a comfort he was uncertain he wanted to shake off – though his subconscious reached out, he was so desperate for connection: he'd started speaking to his horse. “warm today” – he would mutter, before continuing on about the weather, the path ahead, possible dangers. while the horse didn’t offer much conversation it kept arthur sane – as sane a man could be in this world.
ruined buildings greeted him as he trotted into the town, goosebumps waking, warning him, he despised the fact this was his only option – this or starvation, and arthur would not go out that way. in fact: he didn’t want to go any way, he wasn’t ready yet, he still had more to push: he was still a whole man, no distasteful injuries, no broken bones, no sickness.
he jumped off his horse, boots sloshing through what felt more like soup than water. leading it a couple more steps, bringing his horse to water – thought it did not drink, for it sensed the dangers lurking here.
"stay" he muttered to his horse, giving it a pat before he trekked on towards the run-down store. the paint was faded away, letters illegible – he liked to put places like these in his journal – in hopes he would be able to perceive it, and those who lived here long ago – that by writing it down they would be more than just ghost, more than just whispers in the wind.
the floodwater soaked the floor in the general-store as well. old newspaper and trash floated lazily in the muddy water – undisturbed. moss covered the slanted shelves, creating rows of warped aisles – almost like a gateway into another dimension. it was dim, the only light source being the sun that spilled through the broken windows, and torn curtains – eaten by rot and moths the same. the left wall was caved in leading into the next store.
arthur exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, each step careful. the familiar weight of his gun was grounding, it offered a sense of security – control. reminded him that he still had means to fight. he crouched down, searching – silently celebrating as he found and grabbed two cans of food, stashing them in his satchel.
arthur continued further into the store, hoping for more rations – needing more rations. he would not leave without them. desperation made a man reckless.
it got darker the further he ventured into the store, thought he hole in the wall and into the next one.
he continued, a few more steps, trusting of the ground below – a misplaced trust, for seconds later he splashed into deeper water: gasping in shock, ripples circling him. the floor must’ve caved in a long time ago from the floodwater. arthur was now standing waist deep in murky water – completely still, listening for anything that might have heard him. he took a deep breath, steadying himself, and then he continued: making his way thought what felt more like soup than water.
he pushed a chair out of his path, it went willingly, swirling in a waltz of it's own. arthur never let his guard down, pausing whenever he felt to paranoid that someone or something was watching him. he'd stand still, control his breathing and listen. when he had convinced himself all that was here was was the hum of nature he continued.
water dripped of arthur as he found higher ground, a staircase leading out of the water, a small mercy. it creaked underneath his steps, old worn wood – in another life he'd like to have this kind of staircase in a house of his own. it would be a big house, with an even bigger yard, he’d still welcome the forest and nature: letting them surround his home – and he'd have a family, perhaps a dog, maybe a cat.
the second floor was not damaged by water, thought it was still run-down: rubble and debris littering the floors, walls caved in, windows barred up with wooden planks. the dust covering everything – his footsteps sending swirls of it up in the air. arthur continued his search for resources – keeping an eye out for any dangers.
the dancing dust made the air heavy, arthur licked his lips, tugging up his bandana in hopes it might work to filter the air. the last thing he wanted was some sort of lung disease while tracking through this treacherous land.
creaking floorboard and the promise of discovery kept him moving. peaking around a corner he saw it, a makeshift camp, a sanctuary– couple torn bedrolls, stack of books, paper, boxes, old tins of food, one shoe: a time capsule. traces of people, peaceful, undisturbed – no signs of violence. soon it would fade: becoming nothing more than a whisper in the wind as the house would collapse on itself – nature reclaiming it wholeheartedly.
searching through their things he found a couple more un-opened cans, a small journal and a couple of coins – arthur stared at them like they were his undoing: money had been so important to him – to the gang, to dutch, but now they had no meaning – they weren’t a solution, for no amount of money was enough to get out of this place. it felt foolish keeping them now. he ran his thumb over it, a quarter – stuffing it in his pocket, before he filled his satchel with the other items: it sagged ever so slightly, heavy with valuables.
something moved in arthur's peripheral vision – his attention snapped to it. relived to hear the meow – he lowered his gun, chuckling to himself at how startled he had been from a simple cat. the orange tabby darted past, wearing something that resembled a backpack, accompanied by a drone ? – before arthur had the time to question it, the cat was gone again – toppling over some boxes as it leapt away and out – perhaps looking for its own family.
he silently wished it luck, watching where it had disappeared from for a moment longer before his attention returned to the camp. he gave it one more glance: and there, covered in rubble he spotted it: a gun, with a suppressor attached to it. it whispered tales of danger, luring arthur closer – what had happened here? questions distracted him.
a wet, slapping rhythm echoed from his left, bare feet moving too fast: something moving across the ruins with such haste – uncaring for its own survival. a guttural tearing howl echoed through the stores, raising every hair on arthur's neck. the noise so disturbing it put one on edge before the brain could even register the threat.
arthur moved swiftly, firing one round at the runner, hitting it in the knee – it moved wildly, snarling as it hurled itself at arthur – it had no sense of survival at all. snarling and sneering.
instinctively, arthur jammed his arm under its jaw, barley keeping it away from his neck, it squirmed, trying to sink teeth into his flesh, screaming in rage. and yet, it looked at arthur with such sadness, like it wasn’t in control. there was no time to hesitate, arthur pulled the trigger again, sending two more rounds into the runner – the sound echoed through the town, and the infected collapsed on top of arthur. he rolled it off him, scrambling back before getting to his feet.
it was time to move.
arthur checked the gun, only two rounds left. hastily, he grabbed the other gun, into his holster it went, heading for the stairs – quickly changing course as another roar rang from downstairs. his heart hammering is deafening as his feet flee – he is jumping before he realises, crashing onto the roof of the next building: running, not daring to look back at the creatures chasing him, their snarls and howls already enough terror for this old man.
moss makes the surface slippery and arthur is tumbling, off the roof, yelping in pain as he hits the ground, his arm breaking against the pavement – each movement sends waves of fresh pain though him. he's not ready to give up yet – staggering to his feet with a clenched jaw, breathing heavily like there’s not enough air. his arm hanging limp by his side, pathetic, painful. arthur whistled for his horse as he ran towards it, hauling himself up: crying out in agony as he put weight on his injured arm.
"get me out of 'ere" he muttered to his horse, who was just as eager to get away – with a small kick, arthur and his horse was gone, leaving behind nothing more than a embarrassing bloodstain on the pavement.
when they finally slowed down the town was centuries behind. arthur's arm was still in pain, tingling and blooming with bruises – moving it was difficult, painful – he would need to get it properly looked at. he did his best to tend to it himself, life on the road served him well.
days merged into one another, there was still no sign of any civilization, arthur kept going – he had nothing else to do – a lone cowboy on the road to nothing, searching for everything.
after all these days arthur was finally face to face with something alive, another traveller: a man, worn by time and troubles – similar to arthur. tough the stranger must’ve been older – with graying hair and a beard. arthur mimicked the strangers stance: one hand resting over the handle of a gun, other holding the reins – in this world people could be just as bad than infected.
words slipped from arthur's mind – how long had it been since he'd seen anyone? days? weeks? years? he no longer remembered the melody of conversation, and it terrified him.
arthur opened his mouth to speak, but he had nothing to say. he could ask for help, but why would some strangers help him? what sort of mercy did he deserve? he stared at the other man, horse shifting uncertain as time stretched on. then arthur noticed it, another pair of eyes on him: a young girl, half hidden behind the man – her father perhaps.
"i have a son" the words tumbling awkwardly out of him – hoping they would offer some sort of reassurance. "ain't infected" he added – like they would believe a strangers word anymore than they would believe a whisper in the wind.
the girl must've concluded arthur was no danger, for she grew more confident, leaning out to the side. she talked briefly about the town up-ahead, and the man added a few words of his own.
"–i’d cross 'e river too be,.. safe” he muttered the last words having told them about his encounter with the runners. was it even possible to be safe in this world anymore? the older man nodded, staring at arthur for a moment longer – trying to determine if he was a good man.
then the duo trotted past arthur, still keeping their distance: heading towards the other side of the river. arthur watched them pass, the little girl she turned back, motioning to his hat, giving it thumbs up, arthur nodded respectfully for he had forgotten how to smile – and then he continued towards the town, allowing himself an ounce of hope.
bonus:
arthur morgan was done pushing, done searching – he would rest now. climbing the lone mountain felt awful, everything in him aching. the spores rooted within him were now fungi that scratched at his lungs – tearing them apart. he knew there was no salvation, no cure – therefore he had fought his way up here to deprave the fungi of a new host.
when his legs gave out, he crawled the last few meters towards the rising sun: towards redemption. there – on the hillside – arthur made himself comfortable, couching up spores as he watched the morning greet him. the sun never felt this warm, this comforting: accepting arthur for all he was.
he let the sun caress his cheek, knowing he had given it his all – he truly had.
fungi claimed arthur, though it wilted quickly – yielding, for there was nothing more it could take from arthur. Instead, true nature claimed the man: engulfing him in a bed of soft grass and pretty flowers – it sang of his bravery; a whisper in the wind – immortalised forever for those willing to listen.
'm a genius if i dare say so, hehe :3 honorary mention of ginger the cat from stray <3 had to add him! also, might re-visit this au later, probably after i've read up on the games/characters/infected :D
note: can't believe a man in lingerie got me out of my writing slump, this is very much written on a whim – and my first time writing anything like this,..
warnings: suggestive, mature, "smut", alcohol, hickeys, kissing, a mess, confusing relationships, nothing overly explicit, minors do not interact !!
celebrations like these were rare for the gang, most of the members crammed into the same bar: drinking and dancing, cheering like there's no tomorrow. other patrons became friends, laughing along the van der linde gang louder than the rain outside – the night hazy around the edges, warm, inviting, a certain sweetness hanging in the air.
dutch chuckled, giving you a pat on the back with a winning grin that made him look more like a snarling animal – tahiti, he'd said – no, he promised: and you hummed along for your loyalty laid with dutch; despite his wild plans, despite knowing it was some obscure carrot dangling in front of the gangs noses to keep them earning – dangling in front of arthur.
you found the man in the crowd, arthur was smiling, it looked almost odd seeing him happy, relaxed. when was the last time he had been able to participate. taking a sip of your own beer, you continued to watch – it was strange between you and arthur: neither lovers nor enemies, strangers on a intimate level – friends? you weren't sure, and you would never be sure: for asking wasn't an option – not with arthur.
"yer starin' "arthur stated with a chuckle, approaching you. his smirk pinned you down, most people were uncomfortable with his gaze piercing them, the fire, the slight burn, intimidating, frightening, but you knew arthur, having found a place of comfort in the fire – your eyebrows raising, inviting whatever mischief he might have in mind – for his fire never burned you.
he leaned closer, almost caging you in against the bar: booze and bravery pulled you closer. so close and yet so far: he wasn't yours – and yet your heart screamed with longing, taking another sip of your beer to drown it out. arthur's lips brushed against your cheek, whispering simple words: a room and a time.
he hovered for a second: proud of the blush upon your cheeks – and then he was gone, melting back into the crowd: twirling your necktie in his hand, damn thief – you hadn't even noticed him taking it. your hand automatically went to your neck, pressing against faint hickeys, they pulsed underneath your fingertips: exposed, a tingly feeling – excitement perhaps.
that bastard.
restless, you entered the room: it was empty, giving you time to search for your necktie, digging through empty drawers – with no luck you eventually plopped down on the bed: fed up with arthur's little games, you huffed – where in the world could your necktie be?
was it even here? arthur might as well have gambled it away – never did he like it, or rather: he enjoyed the hickeys on your neck – enjoyed how people would stare at them a little too long. perhaps he was a little too possessive over something that wasn't truly his – could you blame him? the same possessiveness ran in your veins as well.
how you yearned for the day it would be the two of you – no more complications, no more confusion, no more games.
the door in the corner of the room opened with a flourish, demanding your attention: and there he stood, arthur morgan, the infamous outlaw – smirking like he owns the world, wearing nothing but blue lingerie and your damn necktie.
he looks glorious – it makes you want to cry, for he is such perfection: broad and big, and littered with scars that whisper tales of countless quarrels and crimes. your necktie a clear challenge – teasing you, daring you. the lacy blue contrast his roughness, swirly patterns covering the most intimate areas, wrapping around him like it belonged there – it is odd how he managed to pull off everything, looking so perfect – being so perfect.
it suits him – this softness he's wearing for you.
your mouth falls open as you shamelessly stare at the man, your face contrasting the lingerie: red like the setting sun, burning – arthur chuckled, proud to have you speechless for once. confidence bubbled in him as he swayed his hips, lace moving perfectly with him, emphasising his curves: scars and scratches covering his body never seemed so holy. a quiet gasp left you, for he was approaching: and it frightened you how natural it looked – had he been practising?
your gaze fell, the floorboards suddenly the most interesting thing in the room – confusion clouded your mind, every though was swimming in a sea of messy emotions and worries. arthur's callous hand caressed your cheek, tilting your head upwards to look at him: it was the first time you felt how his gaze burnt, licking at your skin like small blades – he burned away your confusion – the complications, the worries.
"this alright?" he asked, sincere, simple, sweet – always waiting for your consent.
"yes" lips parted like a prayer, oh yes, it was more than alright, it was everything you desired: stability, security – you pulled him closer, earning a chuckle for your enthusiasm. the lace was soft to the touch, neatly so, and it pulled you in: arthur crawling on top, caging you against the bed. his weight settled on top of you, lips inches away from yours, breath mixing, becoming one – words about to collide.
"ye sure?" he whispered, searching for any sort of hesitation. you nodded, before verbally giving your consent again – he nodded back, smiling as he pressed a kiss to your lips, hands wandering, caressing scars and lace – every touch, every glance: gentle as the river, soft as the morning: both convinced the other was something more than mere flesh and bone – more than mortal.
arthur's knee found its way between your legs, gently spreading them open, pressing against you: slow, steady, secure. pausing for a second the gauge your reaction, once you tugged him closer he knew – and with that; lingerie fell away.
arthur swallowed your moans with another kiss, and you melted together.
