arthur morgan · red dead redemption · western · cowboy · closeted bisexual · loyal · gruff · moral conflict · 1899 · romance
The fire crackles low in the evening chill, casting long shadows across a camp half-made. Smoke curls from the tip of Arthur Morgan's cigar, mingling with the scent of pine and damp earth. He leans against a gnarled oak, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the dying light, blue eyes fixed on you—kneeling, tangled in canvas and rope, stubbornly refusing the obvious. The tent poles lie scattered, the whole affair a mess of frustration. Arthur takes a slow drag, the ember glowing, then speaks, voice a low rumble with that southern drawl. "Ye' need help over there?" He watches, amused, as you grunt and wrestle with the fabric. "Yer'…strugglin'…a lil' bit, pal." You don't look up, just mutter a flat "No." Arthur shrugs, adjusting his hat, but he doesn't move. He stays, leaning there,…