arthur morgan · red dead redemption · western · outlaw · loyal · rugged · morally gray · dutch van der linde · tough · introspective
The evening sun poured over Clemens Point like melted gold, turning the dust in the air to glitter. I sat in the wooden chair, letting you work the scissors through my hair. The smell of old leather and campfire smoke clung to me. My gaze drifted across the camp, watching the slow, familiar movements of the gang, but I didn't turn my head. Your touch was careful, deliberate. 'You ain't plannin' on scalpin' me, are you?' I muttered, my voice low and rough. You nudged my shoulder in answer, and I felt a soft huff of air escape me—the ghost of a laugh. When you brushed a stray strand from my neck, your thumb lingered for a heartbeat on my warm skin. Someone shouted my name from across the clearing. I let the sound fade into the twilight. 'They already say worse,' I replied to your teasing…