ᴍᴜʟᴛɪғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ | ᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴡ ғɪᴄs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ɴᴏᴛᴇs

How to die cutely (Arthur Morgan x male! reader)

Summary: Dumbass love

Warning: don't forget the quarter, dumb idiot stupid male reader in love, love, fluff, need i say more? fun fact, this fic already done but i forgot to post it, SORRY

based on this request, tq!

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The morning was clear and warm — the kind of day that made even criminals feel a little dreamy.

You had woken up in a stupidly good mood. The sun was out, Arthur hadn't growled at you yet, and no one had shot at you in at least forty-eight hours. Dutch had even left camp without assigning anyone a "very important" death-wish mission.

So naturally, your brain decided: Today's the day I'm gonna pick flowers for Arthur Morgan.

Why?

Because you were in love.

The kind of love that makes you do dumb things. The kind of love that made you smile just seeing his grumpy face across the campfire. The kind of love that made you want to shove a bouquet of wildflowers into his hands just to watch him blush and pretend he hated it.

So off you went, all soft smiles and stupid ideas.

You found the patch just south of camp — tucked between some trees by the river. The flowers were small and pale pink, with soft fuzzy stems and these tiny speckled petals that made you think of Arthur's cheeks when he was flustered.

"Perfect," you muttered to yourself, grinning like a damn fool.

You knelt and started picking.

Now, if you had paused to think, or even glanced at the survival journal Arthur made you carry (with an entire section labeled "Do Not Touch These Plants, You Dumbass"), you might've realized that the flowers you were lovingly collecting were spotted water hemlock — a known irritant.

Pedestal boots.

Love makes fools of us all.

You returned to camp a while later, cheeks pink with excitement, a bundle of flowers cradled in your arms like a treasure.

You spotted Arthur near the horses, brushing down his mare.

“Hey, Morgan,” you called, smug. "Got somethin' for you."

He turned, already suspicious. “What the hell are you—”

And then he saw the flowers.

You held them out, grinning. "For you, sugar."

Arthur blinked. "...Are you serious?"

"Dead serious."

"...What'd you do?"

"Nothing!"

Arthur raised a brow, but took them anyway — rough hands surprisingly gentle as he looked over the tiny blooms.

His expression softened.

"...You're a damn idiot," he muttered.

"Yeah," you said. "But I'm your idiot."

Unfortunately, the rash started twenty minutes later.

It started with your hands. Itchy. Red. Then your arms. Then your face.

“Jesus CHRIST—Arthur—”

"What? What's wrong?"

"My SKIN is tryin' to kill me—!"

You were already halfway to the sink, dunking your arms in and cursing up a storm.

Arthur walked up slowly, sniffing the flowers again. Then sniffed your shirt. Then pointed.

"Did you roll in 'em?"

"No— I just picked 'em! Carefully!"

He crouched beside you, smirking. "That ain't no wild rose, genius. That's water hemlock. You're lucky it's just a rash."

You stared at him in horror. "I got you POISON?!"

Arthur laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a snort.

A full-bodied, bend-at-the-waist, clutch-his-sides kind of laugh.

You gawked.

"I almost DIED being ROMANTIC and you're LAUGHING?!"

He tried to speak, choked on another laugh, and waved a hand at you. “You—you brought me poison as a GIFT—!”

You folded your arms. "This is homophobic."

Arthur leaned in, still giggling. "No, this is karma."

Eventually, once he stopped wheezing, he helped rub some cool ointment over the rash — gently, teasing all the while.

"Y'know," he said as he smeared the balm on your reddened arms, "most people write letters. Or cook. Or, hell, kiss their fella when they wanna be sweet."

"Boring," you huffed. "I wanted to be memorable."

"Oh, you're memorable, okay."

You gave him a look. "Don't put that in your journal."

He grinned. "Already did."

That night, after the burning subsided and your dignity had mostly returned, you curled up beside Arthur in the tent.

Your skin still itched a little, but his arms around you helped.

"I'll get you better flowers next time," you muttered sleepily.

Arthur pressed a kiss to your hair. "Well," he whispered. "I like the poison ones. Makes the story better."

You sighed, smiling into his chest.

Because you were dumb.

And in love.

And nothing — not even a rash or a handful of toxic wildflowers — could ruin this.