seen from Germany
seen from Russia
seen from Spain
seen from Türkiye
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from South Korea
seen from United States
seen from Belgium
seen from Türkiye
seen from Sweden
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
Always
Arthur Morgan is a big fan of patriarchy (don't tell him it's not about horses though)
is this weird? yeah maybe. But I saw a clip of Roger Clark saying that Arthur would be a Barbie girl at karaoke kinda guy. i had to
I am thoroughly enjoying watching both Rob Wiethoff's and Roger Clark's current playthroughs of RDR and RDR2
met the legends as Javier🤠
they loved my cosplay!
I bring you all jack marston angst
Arthur Morgan @flesh.png
Arthur Morgan wouldn’t dare risk his heart - and your comfort - by ever telling you how head-over-heels, downright pathetically he’d fallen for you. But it’s there. And everyone in camp sees it, with only one exception. You.
Sure, you’ve not known him as long as the rest, you’ve only really just found your footing with the outlaws after all, but they’re collectively certain you must be some sort of blind not to see it. To them, it’s everywhere, and glaringly obvious.
It’s the twitching in the tips of his fingers when he hears Dutch say that you’ve been with the camp long enough now, if you’re going to stick around you’ll have to start earning your keep. It’s the grimace that settles on his face when he asks Karen how you’ve been holding up, and she mentions she’s been teaching you about ‘appealing’ to men for a few dollars. It’s the rumbled, “Don’t be teachin’ her things like that, hear?”, and the eye roll he gives in response to her retort, an accusation of how he’s sweet on you, and grumbles to her before trudging off to go chop firewood, “Just… keep her outta that shit.”
It’s the way he’s spent the past two days bugging Hosea nearly incessantly about teaching you the ways of reading and conning people, because even a single thought of you having to sell your body in order to support the camp leaves a rancid metallic feeling in his mouth. He doesn’t like that others have to do it, of course, but they’re not you.
It’s the way he always knows when you’re upset, seeing how you become as abrasive as a sweet thing like you can muster, shrugging people off, never holding eye contact or a conversation. It’s the way he spots you at the edge of the overlook, sitting with your knees up to your chest, your small figure making his heart clench and ache and pound, telling him to help. It’s the way he approaches slowly, crushing grass beneath footsteps that are as gentle as possible for a big man like himself, and sits beside you quietly, a fair distance away.
It’s the way his heart throbs and pulses when you shuffle to his side and ask to be held. He reaches out and draws you into his lap, slowly, holding you there with loose arms against his firm figure.
“S’alright girl…”
“Nah, don’t worry bout it; this shirt’s seen a lot worse’n a few tears…”
“Ya comfy? Yeah? That’s good…”
It’s the way, when you finally open up to him about what’s been bothering you, the sun now setting over the horizon with soft breezes of cool air running between and around you both, he listens like his life depends on it. It’s the way, no matter what the trigger was, he’s validating it like his (and your) life depends on you knowing he would never judge you.
“Next time, come to me, alright?”
It’s the way he doesn’t let you protest in anyway - starting a counter he won’t permit you to even get out, shaking his head and bringing a finger up to your lips to hush you, before insisting, “Ya got a problem, come to me. Don’t care what I’m doin’, I’ll make time. And if I ain’t around… go to Hosea, alright?” It’s the hushed, “Good girl,” that comes off his tongue in a low rumble when you nod your acquiescence.
It’s the way when the weather starts getting colder, he’s constantly offering you jackets of his own - even ones currently wrapped snugly around his broad shoulders - and takes the little hesitation before your attempt at denying his offer to shrug it off and hand it to you. “Jus’ take it, need it more’n me anyway.”
It’s the way he always seems to be lingering whenever you’ve been asked to go into town, and decides he suddenly needs a new brush for his horse, or more ammo, and tags along, glueing himself to your side as you go about whatever you’d intended to do.
It’s the way he finds the pages of his journal are suddenly filled with rambling thoughts of you, and scribbles of your jewelry, even some drawings of your dresses with little added patterns and designs he thinks would suit you well, and anything you’d ever mentioned - even in passing - to find beautiful or interesting, no matter how mundane.
It’s the way every second he’s with you, he seems more at ease than he is any other time, even in sleep. After all, what better cure is there to grumpy cowboy syndrome than a pretty girl with a soft smile and a good heart?
Roger once again confirms Charthur as canon and everything is alright with the world 🤝
