"You're just too good to be true / can't take my eyes off of you"
— Frankie Valli / "Can't Take My Eyes off You"
★ pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader / reader POV
★ tags/warnings: romantic tension, so much tension, compliments, Arthur Morgan is weak for praise, and touch-starved, mayor's party, Arthur Morgan in a suit, BARK BARK BARK, mutual pining, idiots in love, flirting, devoted Arthur Morgan, man is fighting for his life, mirror scene, tie fixing, Arthur Morgan has terrible self-esteem, neck kisses, Hosea being Hosea, YEARNING!!!
★ word count: ~1.8k
Trust Dutch and Hosea to be up to no good, and rope you and Arthur straight into it.
They didn't say much, didn't give you any details. Just pressed a wad of bills into your palm and told you to head into town.
"Make yourself look proper," Dutch said. That was all.
And with money in your hand and the big city at your feet, who are you to argue?
You're certain the dress hugging your figure is something the women in higher places wear to just about any old party. Near enough to silk for the sort of men Dutch means to fool.
But to you? It's a marvel.
Satin that sits just right, stays that cradle instead of poke, petticoats that whisper with every step.
You look like a thousand dollars and some change.
Least, that's what Mary-Beth says.
All Tilly and Karen can muster are jaws on the floor, eyes all but falling from their sockets.
"Arthur sees you, he ain't gonna make it," Tilly utters, fanning herself.
Molly just rolls her eyes. She always was a woman of few words.
Even still, she mutters a quiet, "Guess it ain't half bad," before turning her attention elsewhere.
The girls are fussing over you—fixing an errant curl into place, straightening your gloves, adjusting a ribbon—when a familiar voice cuts in.
"Ladies."
You glance up, and there stands Hosea—hands tucked easy into his vest pockets, looking you over with quiet approval.
He nods, then asks, "Mind stealin' a minute?"
Your eyes narrow immediately.
"That depends. What you need?" you ask, tilting your head. Curious, cautious.
Hosea's always had a way of convincing you to do things, and it almost always has to do with—
"Arthur's havin' himself a little crisis."
Karen snorts. You don't so much as blink as you glance behind him toward the house.
"That so?"
"Mm," he hums, rocking back on his heels.
"Claims he looks ridiculous."
Your face softens despite yourself.
Hosea notices—of course he does. Everyone knows as much as the two of you butt heads, you can't help yourself where Arthur's concerned.
Apparently, neither can he.
"Thought maybe someone might talk sense into him."
You don't budge, huffing indignantly.
"Why me?"
A moment passes, the girls watching on as it stretches in the air between you. Then—
"Because you're his date, aren't you?"
Mary-Beth's hand claps over her mouth, and Tilly? Well, she looks like the cat that got the cream.
"Oh, I knew it!" she exclaims. "How sweet."
You make an attempt to catch your bearings, but all your thoughts fall apart like a wagon wheel come undone.
"I ain't his—"
"For appearances," Hosea says innocently.
Whatever he finds in your expression, it's enough to make him pause, sighing fondly.
"Though I suspect Arthur may disagree."
With that, he wanders off, leaving you staring after him, lips parting like a fish out of water.
Now what the hell are you meant to do with that?
"Well?" says Mary-Beth, staring at you expectantly. "Ain't you gonna check on him?"
You huff, drop your arms to your sides. "Yeah, yeah. I'm goin'."
Javier gives you a whistle as you pass, saying something about you holding out on them. Rolling your eyes, you grin, passing him by with a thump to the back of the head.
"Where you goin'?" he calls out, rubbing where your hand connected with his hair.
"Gotta see about a man in a suit."
You round the corner, take the stairs two at a time, holding up your skirts as you go.
Doesn't take you long to find him. Could've picked the right door blind, with the way your heart's carrying on.
Without a word, you slip inside, shut it gently at your back.
And good grief, the sight of him stops you in your tracks, kills every quip you were holding on the tip of your tongue.
There he stands—tailored suit, bowtie undone, hair fixed up like you've never seen before.
A sight for sore eyes.
Reckon you've been parched for quite some time, the way you're drinking him in like water in a barren desert.
When his gaze finds yours in the mirror, you both freeze at once.
But you see it.
The way his eyes drop to the dress clinging to you in all the right places—lingering at the neckline long enough to make your pulse jump—before jerking forward once more.
You don't miss the way his jaw tightens, wrought with tension.
Taking a deep breath, you cross the room slowly, heels clicking with every step.
"...You alright?" you ask quietly, watching him shift on his feet, discomfort on his face plain as day.
He snorts, looking back to his reflection, fingers yanking at his tie.
"Look a damn fool," he mutters.
"Oh, hush," you chide, inching closer. "Let me—"
"Naw." He bats the offer away before you can finish. "I got it. Don't worry none—"
But you're already there, hands sliding beneath his, easing them down.
Your fingers brush the warm skin at his throat as you take hold of the bowtie at both ends, doing it up easy.
"Mm," you hum, fighting a smile. "Makin' a right mess of it."
A quiet little laugh escapes your nose. Arthur watches closely as you fix the knot into place—not too loose, not too tight.
Just right.
You smooth your hands along his jacket—adjust his lapels like they aren't sitting fine already, brush away imaginary dust from his shoulders, fingers taking their time running down his arms.
"There. All done," you murmur, eyes on his mouth.
He doesn't look at you. Not until your finger hooks beneath his chin, angling his head until he can't avoid it any longer.
"Nervous?"
He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"I look nervous?" he asks, voice low.
The laugh you give him is soft, a smile curling your lips before you think better of it.
"Your tie sure did."
He stares so long, your cheeks start to burn beneath the rouge dusted over them. But you don't look away. Even as his eyes flick down to the fabric draped along your body once more before returning to meet yours.
"New dress?"
His fingers brush the fabric, curiosity getting the best of him, his hand settling at your waist. When he's certain you won't shy away, his fingers curl around your hip—steady now, no hesitation left in him.
You nod, bite the inside of your cheek before asking what's been on your mind since you walked through the door.
"You like it?"
He glances at you once—quick, like looking too long might lead to him doing something he can't take back.
"Looks nice."
He pauses.
"Real nice."
Your hand rises to rest on his chest—unmoving, just feeling—before slipping beneath his jacket to feel the heat of him through his underclothes.
"I like the suit... Looks good on you," you murmur.
His lips twitch—almost a grin, but not quite enough.
"Ain't nothin' special."
You frown at the way he shifts, looking at himself in the mirror like the man staring back just ain't quite right.
"What are you on about?"
He shrugs, rolls his shoulders. His hand finds yours, covering it on his chest, holding it there.
As if you'd ever dream of pulling away.
"Arthur—"
"Just ain't much to look at is all," he mutters.
You blink, a couple times, half-convinced he's lost his damn mind.
He's looking at the floor now, touch going slack against yours. You turn your hand, lacing your fingers, press the back of it flat to your chest where your heart thuds a rapid pace.
"That what you think?" you breathe, letting him feel it.
How he affects you.
How the sight of him now is doing little good to your composure.
How his touch, and the weight of those eyes on you, shakes you to the core.
His jaw loosens at your whispered words.
"Don't look myself," he says quietly.
"It's just a suit," you reassure him. "Same man wearin' it."
He doesn't believe it—not even close. But you won't leave it there.
"Arthur Morgan, have you looked at yourself?"
He scoffs, shakes his head.
"Every damn day."
"Then I reckon you ain't lookin' hard enough."
Cupping his face, your thumb grazes his cheek.
"I'm s'posed to find somethin' wrong with this?"
"Don't you start—"
Before he can protest, you're on your toes, pressing a kiss to his lips that lasts longer than it needs to. Enough for you to feel the hitch in his breath, his fingers tightening where they hold you still.
"What kinda woman you take me for?" you whisper against his mouth. "Think I don't know what I got?"
You trail kisses to his cheeks—the left, then the right, a firm press of your lips to his skin.
"Think I don't love the man beneath all this?"
You move along the strong line of his jaw, down his neck to where his pulse flutters relentlessly beneath the hot press of your tongue.
"Darlin', ain't a thing about you that doesn't drive me wild," you murmur, nipping lightly at the space beneath his ear.
"Christ," he mutters. "The hell you doin' to me, woman."
He rubs at his jaw, all flustered and red. You'll never tire of seeing him like this—not for a second.
"We got places t'be."
"Don't you preach at me. We ain't in no rush," you say, watching him sigh when his fingers find the scar on his chin.
You notice—ain't a thing about the man that slips past you.
"Almost forgot," you say suddenly, rising again to press a slow kiss to the mark. Long enough to remind him it's just another thing about him you can't help but love.
His brows draw tight, watching you in surprise, reverence taking its place soon after.
Stepping back with a playful grin, you adjust his collar and make your way to the door.
"Go on and finish up, cowboy."
Then, tossing his words right back, you say, "'We got places to be,' after all."
He doesn't get a word in before you're gone, slipping out of the room, the smell of your perfume lingering long after.
Out front, you nearly collide head first with Hosea where he leans against a railing, watching you with thinly-veiled amusement.
He knows too much. Old man's got eyes in the back of his head.
"He alright in there?"
You pause, the memory of what you just did flashing in your mind, and cast a brief glance back at the house.
"He's just fine," you say, a lilt in your voice you couldn't hide if you tried.
Hosea studies your face a beat too long.
The pleased little curl of your mouth, the way you won't quite meet his gaze, cheeks a touch too flushed.
His lips twitch.
"Thought as much."
a/n: ohhhhhh, this is a buzzy one SORRYYYY! this is for this request i received with some creative liberties taken, as i had a specific vision in mind for how it would go. anon, i hope you love it sm!!!!!! i'm still working through requests. rest assured, i'll get to the ones still waiting soon ♡ as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated, and thank you sm for reading! mwah mwah ilysm
I posted this on TikTok and it did well so I’ll dump it here too
Theres still supernatural stuff in the au cause rdr is a weird world but it’s awesome so whatever~
The plot would be a loose adaptation of season 1 and 2 mixed together and they’re in their 20’s here. Wednesday comes to Saint Denis after chasing the trail of a killer Hyde and its master but is wanted by the law for being framed for Weems’ murder. Cue chase scene where she gets shot bad, bleeding out in an alleyway.
Enid finds her and brings her back to her families farm! She’s still a werewolf who hasn’t wolfed out (lol) and works at the family owned butcher shop in town which she tolerates cause then she gets to go out to the shops nearby and buy whatever cheap fabric she can get to make herself new clothes. Plus theres a new mystery guest she wants to impress with her knitting skills, platonically ofcourse.
As with most of my hyperfixations, I always have to draw a "fandom goes to Disneyland." To my newer followers, I am a huge Disneyland fan and I love going to the parks. I decided to do some sketches of the Van Der Linde gang going to Disneyland to celebrate Jack's birthday, based on some pics I took during my last Disneyland trip. Part 02 is on the way!
