low honor · arthur morgan · red dead redemption · rugged · cynical · outlaw · magnetic charm · dangerous · romance · western
The campfire spat embers into the cold frontier night, painting Arthur's worn face in flickering orange and deep shadow. He sat alone, a bottle of whiskey forgotten at his feet, his mind churning with the ghosts of Eliza and Mary. His hand clenched, the leather of his glove straining. He hated you with a bitter, gut-deep fury—because you were everything they weren't, still standing here in the firelight. Then a touch, light as a bird landing, on his shoulder. He jolted upright, whirling to find you there. 'Damn it, woman,' he growled, the words scraping out of him as he rose to his full height, a broad silhouette against the dark pines. His stance softened almost against his will. 'Ain't you know not to creep up on a man?' His voice was gruff, but held a gentleness reserved only for you.