hi! i'm zosia! this is my second blog, and i plan to base it around the character arthur morgan!
occassionally, i might write for one of the other rdr characters.
im 9teen, and an enfp!
check out my (main) jjk blog here!
.☘︎ ݁˖ likes!
rdr2, jjk, jjba, pineapples, chemistry, snow, rocky, peonies, cats, rambo, ylia, a sign of affection, horimiya, summer, biology, pompompurin
.☘︎ ݁˖ what i wont write!
incest
noncon
lolicon
anything controversial
.☘︎ ݁˖ dni if..!
proshipper
homophobia/transphobia/etc
discriminate in any form
ignore/invalidate a person's pronouns, gender, identity, etc.
synopsis: arthur morgan returns from hunting, and you watch how effortlessly he carries carcasses to and fro. you greet him to find he's brought something back for you.
contains: whole lotta fluff, whipped arthur, fem!reader, awkward arthur
wc: 1.6k!
The morning at Horseshoe Overlook was already warm, sunlight spilling through the trees in honey-colored streaks. Camp was slow and quiet - just the soft murmur of someone shuffling cards and the distant clink of pots as Pearson fussed over breakfast.
You were rinsing your hands at the bucket, rolling your shoulders loose, breathing in that dusty summer air - when the sound of heavy footsteps and rustling brush pulled your attention.
Arthur emerged from the treeline, and damn if he didn’t look like he belonged to the wild and claimed it too.
A deer rested across his shoulders, tied firm and balanced like it weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. His shirt was pushed up at the sleeves, tan skin catching sunlight, muscles shifting beneath it with each steady step. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple - he wiped it with the back of his arm and kept walking, jaw set in that determined, effortless way of his.
He saw you first.
And just like always, his face softened the second his eyes landed on you, just enough to make your heart feel like it tripped over itself.
“Mornin’,” he drawled, voice warm as the breeze.
You tried - you really tried - not to stare at the whole display of strength and surety in front of you. But your eyes lingered, caught somewhere between admiration and that fluttery feeling you refused to name.
“Morning.” You echoed, a little breathless. “Successful hunt?”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Reckon so. Figured Pearson might actually stop complainin’ for an hour.”
You laughed, and he looked just a little too proud of himself for making you do it.
Pearson came bustling over like a man possessed, praising the meat and already planning dinner. Arthur let him yap, then turned back to you, thumb hooking absently into his gun belt.
“Didn’t expect you awake this early.” He admitted, eyes lingering on you like he was committing the sight to memory.
You brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Nice mornings like this? Hard to sleep through ’em. Besides,” you added, heat rising beneath your skin even before the words fully formed, “good company helps.”
It slipped out so soft you almost hoped he didn’t catch it.
But he did - and the look he gave you in return was slow, warm, and dangerous in the sweetest kind of way. A smile tugged at his lips, quiet and pleased, like he wasn’t sure whether to tease you or hold the moment close.
“That so?” He teased, voice turned low and rich.
Pearson yelled something unintelligible at him, breaking the spell. Arthur cleared his throat and adjusted the deer on his shoulder.
For just a second - one warm, golden-lit second - his tough, steady composure faltered. His ears went a little pink. Then that ghost of a grin returned, curling at his mouth like he couldn’t fight it if he tried.
“Well,” he said, tipping his hat, “good to know.”
He walked off toward Pearson, but not without looking back once more, like he couldn’t help himself.
Arthur emerged from the trees carrying the deer like it weighed no more than a coat slung over his shoulder, sun catching on his arms, sweat glinting off the warm bronze of his skin. Camp chatter softened as he passed - even the horses lifted their heads like they knew a man worth noticing when they saw one.
He crossed the clearing at that steady, grounded pace of his, boots sinking into dirt, muscles working in smooth, practiced motion. If strength had a sound, it’d be the quiet confidence in his steps. You pretended not to stare, yet every line of him pulled at your eyes like gravity.
He dropped the deer beside Pearson’s wagon with a heavy, final thud.
Pearson spun, wide-eyed. “Arthur, that there is—”
Arthur didn’t stay long enough to hear the praise. He’d already turned - not toward his tent, not toward camp work, but toward you.
His gaze found you easily, like it always did. Like maybe it was looking for you before he even got back.
“Hold up a second.” He grumbled, cutting Pearson off mid-breath.
Pearson blinked, baffled. “Arthur? Don’t you wanna—?”
But Arthur was already stepping away. You watched as he wiped his palms on his trousers, cleared his throat like he was preparing for a duel, and walked straight toward you.
You blinked. “For me?”
He nodded, then immediately seemed to regret nodding, because now he looked awkward as hell. “Just—wait here.”
Before you could say a word, he turned sharply, pacing toward his horse like a man on a mission and yet somehow embarrassed to be seen doing it. You watched him rummage in his saddlebag, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact. Then he hesitated… winced… and pulled something out.
It was a little wildflower bouquet.
…Well. Mostly a bouquet.
A few petals were bent, some stems twisted from the ride back: a handful of summer blooms in shades of pale yellow and soft white, tied together with a bit of twine. Clearly gathered by hand. Clearly meant for you.
He stared at it with a tiny grimace, thumb brushing over a crushed petal like he could magically fix it by sheer willpower alone.
Then he sighed under his breath, squared his shoulders, and headed back - bouquet held behind him like it might explode. When he stopped in front of you, he cleared his throat again. Twice.
“So, uh… this’s for you.” He muttered, finally holding the flowers out.
You looked at them - imperfect, sweet, heartbreakingly earnest - then at him. His eyes flicked to yours and away instantly, a pink flush climbing his cheeks.
“They were nicer before.” He mumbled, visibly annoyed at the betrayal of nature. “Got a bit squashed comin’ down the ridge.”
You accepted them gently, careful like they were a gift worth more than they looked - because to you, they were.
“They’re beautiful.” You said softly.
He lifted his head at that, searching your face like he needed to make sure you meant it. When he saw the truth there, his whole expression softened - relief, warmth, something tender he didn’t know how to hide quick enough.
“Yeah?” He asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he just nodded once - slow, almost shy - and tugged the brim of his hat down.
“Figured you might like ’em.” He murmured.
A beat passed. Summer air between you, bright and gentle. Your fingers brushed his as you tucked one flower behind your ear, and he froze - breath catching just a little.
Behind him, Pearson’s voice cracked across camp like a frustrated rooster: “Arthur Morgan, that deer ain't gonna skin itself!”
Later, camp settled into that soft evening hum - the clink of plates being washed, the crackle of the fire, somebody humming a tune just off-key enough to make it human. Lantern light flickered across wagons, and fireflies drifted like tiny sparks caught in the warm twilight.
Arthur sat at the edge of camp with his journal open but absolutely not writing a damn thing. He kept pretending to scratch the page, but he wasn’t fooling anybody with eyes.
Especially not Dutch.
“So.” Dutch drawled from across the fire, swirling his drink like he was born dramatic, “I heard you rode back with quite the… spring in your step today.”
Arthur’s jaw ticked. “Don’t start.”
“Seems to me,” Dutch continued, voice like a smug cat stretching in the sun, “our dear Arthur’s been feelin’ inspired by nature. Flowers and all.” He smirked. “Romantic sort.”
Arthur’s ears went pink instantly. “Ain’t nothin’ like that. Just saw ‘em, figured… somethin’ nice. Nothin’ more to it.”
Dutch lifted a brow like he didn’t believe a single word. And truthfully? Neither did Arthur.
He tried to go back to staring at his blank journal page. Tried to breathe normally. Tried not to think about how close he’d come to makin’ a fool of himself handing those flowers over.
But then he looked up.
And froze.
You were walking toward the fire, lantern light catching your hair - and there they were. His flowers.
Braided into your hair, woven through like they belonged there all along. Little, soft, wild blooms threaded between strands, glowing in firelight, making you look like summer itself had chosen you.
Arthur forgot how breathing worked.
His fingers curled slowly into the paper of his journal. His shoulders stiffened. His heart - traitor that it was - kicked hard enough that he felt it in his throat.
Dutch followed his line of sight, then grinned like the devil himself. “Ahh.” He realised, low and pleased. “And there she is.”
Arthur swallowed. Hard.
You met his eyes briefly, shy little smile tugging at your lips when you caught him staring, and he had to look down at his boots before he did something stupid, like stand up and pull you into his arms in front of half the camp.
Dutch leaned closer, voice just loud enough for Arthur to hear. “Son, if you’re tryin’ to hide it, you’re doing a terrible job.”
Arthur grunted, voice strained. “Ain’t hidin’ nothin’. Ain’t anything to hide.”
Dutch’s laugh was knowing, quiet but wicked. “Mhm. And I suppose the sky ain’t blue either.”
Arthur tried to ignore him. Tried. But when you settled by the fire, flowers glowing in your hair, soft smile just for him, he felt something in his chest tighten, soften, and break open all at once.
He ducked his head, tipping his hat low to hide the way his mouth betrayed him with a tiny, helpless smile.
Dutch saw it anyway and clicked his tongue. “Lord help him.” He teased cheerfully. “The man is gone.”
Arthur didn’t look up. He didn’t trust himself to.
All he managed was a quiet, rough, “Shut it.” and even that sounded more like a prayer than a threat.
And across the fire, with your flowers in your hair and moonlight catching your eyes, you looked at him like maybe, just maybe, you were gone too.
a/n: arthur is such a cutie.. he just like me fr.. this is also my first post on this account what do we think chat
