#arthur/ofc

[starlight-and-whiskey]

AO3 Masterlist - RDR2

Under Your Skin (Ongoing) Never meaning to, you end up pregnant with Arthur Morgan's child. One child leads to a happiness you never thought you'd find, which in turn leads to a family Arthur never thought he deserved. Arthur/ (F) Reader

Weep and Call it Singing When tasked with bringing down Dutch's boys from the inside by Colm O Driscoll, the last thing you expected was to find yourself torn between two sides. Least of all, you never expected to fall in love with your rival's loyal enforcer. Arthur/(F) Reader - Word Count: 57,739

Seams are Torn When a hunting trip with Arthur goes bad, you find yourself holed up miles from camp and inches from death. This story takes place in the cabin you take refuge in, with fear burrowing into your bones, Arthur's honeyed reassurances, and the threatening icy embrace of death's hand looming at your shoulder. Arthur/(F) Reader - Word Count: 22,362

A Place to Rest Your Bones (18+ Chapters) Your momma always welcomed Dutch and Hosea to take refuge in your small house whenever they needed. As you grow older, you become a safe haven for Arthur. A life told through snapshots of these visits from a young child, until your final visit. Arthur/(F) Reader - Word Count: 59,102

More People than Ghosts Battered and bruised, when Eleanor escaped the infamous Blackthorne gang, she didn't expect to fall into the arms of Arthur Morgan. But can you ever truly leave your past behind? Arthur/OFC - Word Count: 24,068

Roping 101 Arthur finds himself a little...tied-up. After all, camp doesn't provide a whole heap of opportunities to really let go. A hotel room with a sturdy headboard does. Arthur/Reader - 18+ - Word Count: 1,342

Fever and Falling You left the Van der Linde gang years ago, but when Arthur Morgan falls ill, you're persuaded to return. Nursing Arthur back to health rekindles more than just old memories. Arthur/Reader - Word Count: 6,430

My Soul has Gone Away Arthur Morgan doesn't say a lot about Eliza and Isaac. He has nightmares about them a lot though. This is one of them. Word Count: 1,513

Don't Call Me Sweetheart Had a dream, wrote a fic. Aimless smut/fluff about reader getting hurt and Arthur caretaking...of sorts.... Arthur/Reader - 18+ - Word Count: 2,733

We Can't Change What's Done Your world is turned upside down when a crazed cowboy claiming to be from the past barges into your home. Your future in his past is told to you through letters from...well, from yourself. Arthur/Reader - 18+ Chapter - Word Count: 19,622

[potato-lord-but-not]

YAY finally finished the jarthurs !!!! post 1/2 !!! also I severely fucked up two in the other batch so idk if I want to redo them or try something else but whatever aha :’))

Jarthurs in order!!: @teafromthemicrowave @colebirb @mikonez and @beentobeetle !!!!!!! YIPPE

[virtualtear00]

I was housed by your warmth

Thus transformed

By you're grounded and giving

And darkening scorn

Remember me, love

When I'm reborn

As a shrike to your sharp

And glorious thorn

I found that ''shrike to your sharp'' from Hozier's song is a metaphor for a deeply consuming, perhaps even destructive, love. And thought that it fitted Jarthur perfectly

[mossy-rainfrog]

[ID: A three panel comic of Arthur and John atop the black tower in the Dark World. In the first panel, thick thorny brambles are seen in the foreground. Arthur and John look tentatively over the edge, and Arthur clutches his lighter in a hand and gestures with the other. He says: "How am I going to hold on to the lighter as we climb?"

The second panel shows Arthur and John from a distance making a pained expression. Arthur is completely naked, his groin covered by a conveniently placed bramble. The two have a thought bubble which shows a screenshot of the song "Have you checked your butthole?" with the word 'butthole' very large.

The third panel zooms back in on their faces, looking disturbed, as John says "...put it in your mouth." and Arthur agrees "yeah." End ID.]

had a category 10 stupid meme idea while listening to 53. butthole song here :)

bonus uncolored version bc i also like it!

[ID: The same comic but without color, except the screenshot, which is still in color. End ID.]

[unfortunatelymerlin]

x

[itscalledastrategyfred]

Curtain Falls, So Do We

Request: -🏀

Pairing: Brother!Charles Leclerc x Sister!Reader

Warnings: missed performances :)

Summary: Charles missed your dance and he'll do everything to make it up to you.

A/N: tysm, 🏀 anon!

The curtain had just fallen.

The lights dimmed, the applause still echoing like a heartbeat in your ears, but you stood frozen behind the wings, trembling in your pointe shoes, your tutu barely rustling as you breathed in shaky, silent gasps.

You’d done it.

The first solo performance of your life.

Except—he wasn’t there.

You turned toward the doors, your eyes scanning the silhouettes beyond the velvet curtains.

Nothing.

No sign of the signature Leclerc curls. No smile that could melt your nerves. No warm arms ready to say “You were incredible, mon étoile.”

Just darkness. And noise. And stagehands calling cues for the next group.

You blinked.

Swallowed.

And walked off with your chin high.

Back in the dressing room, everyone buzzed. Makeup being wiped off, pointe shoes unfastened, glitter dusting the carpeted floor. Girls hugged. Instructors smiled. Parents waited outside, holding presents and bouquets.

You sat at your mirror, slowly unlacing your shoes. The satin ribbons trembled in your fingers.

Your heart felt too big and too empty at the same time.

Your phone buzzed.

You swiped it open without much hope.

Charli 8:42pm — “Je suis désolé, chérie. We got held up at the paddock. I'm coming now. Please wait for me.”

You stared at the text for a long moment.

Then a tear fell. And another. They kept coming.

Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet tears sliding down your cheeks like kisses from a rose petal.

You’d told him about this performance months ago. He’d promised. Pinky promised. Charles never broke those. It was the childish nature in him.

Except now, with the season full swing, the Monaco GP madness around him, and press demands on every corner…

You’d been pushed down the list.

Again.

It was twenty-five minutes later when he finally arrived.

He burst through the backstage hallway in his Ferrari polo and jeans, hair slightly mussed, eyes frantic.

“Y/N!”

You didn’t look up right away. Just sat in the corridor still half-dressed, your bag open beside you.

His voice softened when he saw you.

“Oh, ma petite…”

“I’m not that little anymore,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on your bag zipper.

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, crouching in front of you. “But you’ll always be my little étoile.”

You sniffed.

“I danced without you.”

“I know. And I’m so proud of you.”

“You weren’t there to see it.”

Charles looked like he’d been hit straight in the chest.

He reached forward slowly, like you were made of glass, and gently tucked a loose curl behind your ear.

“I’m so sorry. The race weekend—it ran long, the media was insane—I didn’t want to miss it, I swear on everything.”

You nodded, barely. Only just.

He dropped to sit beside you now, shoulder to shoulder on the cold floor.

There was a pause.

Then: “You know what I used to do before every kart race?”

You shook your head.

“I would listen to that one Chopin piece. The one you used to practice with. The one with the soft piano and the sad ending. It made me think of you.”

Your throat tightened.

“You did not. Liar.”

“I did. Even in Formula 2. Even now sometimes. It reminded me of how hard you worked. How graceful you were. How pretty and neat. How I never wanted to let you down.”

You bit your lip, a tear escaping. A gentle hiccup escaped.

Charles turned to face you.

“You didn’t let me down,” you whispered. “I just… really, really wanted you to be proud of me.”

“I am proud of you,” he said, voice cracking a little.

You looked up, and there it was—his face, open and full of love and guilt and admiration all in one.

“I’m your big brother. But tonight, I was also the guy running through the parking lot like a maniac to catch his sister’s final bow.”

You laughed, watery.

“That sounds stupid.”

“It was stupid. And I still missed it. But I swear, next time—I will be there an hour early, in the front row, wearing a glitter tutu if I have to.”

You burst out laughing.

The ache didn’t vanish, but it softened.

He pulled you into a hug.

“You looked beautiful,” he murmured into your hair. “Even now, all tired and glittery and grumpy. You’re everything I’m proud of, (Y/N). Always.”

You buried your face into his shoulder and let yourself breathe again.

Back at home, he insisted on cooking pasta.

“You danced, I make dinner. That’s the rule.”

You sat at the kitchen island in your hoodie, finally warm and makeup-free, watching your Formula One driver of a brother burn garlic in a pan like an amateur.

“You’re not doing it right,” you teased.

“You sound like Enzo.”

“You cook like Enzo.”

“Watch it.”

“Maman cooks better than you and she makes toast with tomato sauce.”

He gave you a deadpan look.

“Rude.”

You smiled, slowly, for real this time.

Later, you lay on the couch, legs stretched over Charles’s lap as he scrolled through pictures from your performance that your ballet teacher had sent him.

“She sent me like fifty,” he muttered, zooming in. “Look at your arm here! That’s crazy! You looked like you were floating!”

You blushed.

“Stop hyping me up.”

“Never.”

You peeked at his phone screen. One photo caught your eye — you, mid-pirouette, lit from above like a painting.

You inhaled. “I… I really did that, huh?”

“You owned it, ma belle. No wonder people cried in the audience.”

Your eyes widened. “Someone cried?”

“Yeah. Maggie’s mom told Arthur.”

You covered your face, groaning.

“Oh noooo.”

He laughed and poked your ribs. “Famous already.”

You peeked at him. “Did you mean it? About wearing a tutu to the next show?”

“Do you want me to?”

You grinned.

“Only if you bedazzle it.”

“Done. Ferrari red.”

You laughed so hard your stomach ached and tears fell.

As the night wore down and the apartment dimmed to its sleepy hush, you curled into the corner of the couch, head on Charles’s shoulder.

He wasn’t talking now. Just scrolling through photos again, eyes fond.

“I was scared today,” you murmured suddenly. “Before going on stage.”

He looked down. “Really?”

You nodded. “I thought I’d fall. Or forget the choreo. Or freeze.”

He wrapped an arm around you. Strong and protective. “But you didn’t.”

“Because I pretended you were out there watching.”

Charles didn’t speak for a moment.

Then he kissed the top of your head.

“I’m always watching, even when I’m late,” he said quietly.

You smiled.

That was enough.

That was more than enough.

[pinep-ne]

them and gender expression or whatever

[gridbox]

charles: so max and I—

arthur: are getting married?

charles: what? no, we just—

arthur, pulling out a huge binder: sit down, i have had this whole thing planned out for ages

[justaz]

balinor giving merlin the ambrosius sigil and merlin carrying it around with him for years. merlin and arthur sitting around a campfire, both believing fullheartedly that they’ll be dead by morning bc like hell are they going to allow the other to sacrifice themself to close the veil. arthur giving merlin the du bois sigil as a parting gift and ensuring that merlin will be taken care of after his death. merlin biting the bullet and handing over the ambrosius family sigil in exchange. luckily, arthur doesn’t recognize the ambrosius sigil for what it is - a dragonlord lineage. BUT now he thinks merlin has noble blood and is wondering when tf he figured that out, if he ever met his father, and why he never told arthur.

[kan-be]

so I’ve had this fantasy AU in the back of my mind since 2021 and I finally decided to draw some stuff on it

[abisalli]

If canon won't let them hug, I will make them hug

[potato-lord-but-not]

uhhhhhmmmmm helloooooo here’s some entirely not sfw doodles for the fellow monster!John/Noel enthusiasts. I will now take my leave. permanently

[asshatproductions]

It’s almost time for my favorite time of year…

NEURODIVERGENT CHRISTMAS

[flying-fangirls]

Do y'all think Arthur would survive as an NVCR intern?

[heyitspapayaontop]

Curtain Falls, So Do We

Request: -🏀

Pairing: Brother!Charles Leclerc x Sister!Reader

Warnings: missed performances :)

Summary: Charles missed your dance and he'll do everything to make it up to you.

A/N: tysm, 🏀 anon!

The curtain had just fallen.

The lights dimmed, the applause still echoing like a heartbeat in your ears, but you stood frozen behind the wings, trembling in your pointe shoes, your tutu barely rustling as you breathed in shaky, silent gasps.

You’d done it.

The first solo performance of your life.

Except—he wasn’t there.

You turned toward the doors, your eyes scanning the silhouettes beyond the velvet curtains.

Nothing.

No sign of the signature Leclerc curls. No smile that could melt your nerves. No warm arms ready to say “You were incredible, mon étoile.”

Just darkness. And noise. And stagehands calling cues for the next group.

You blinked.

Swallowed.

And walked off with your chin high.

Back in the dressing room, everyone buzzed. Makeup being wiped off, pointe shoes unfastened, glitter dusting the carpeted floor. Girls hugged. Instructors smiled. Parents waited outside, holding presents and bouquets.

You sat at your mirror, slowly unlacing your shoes. The satin ribbons trembled in your fingers.

Your heart felt too big and too empty at the same time.

Your phone buzzed.

You swiped it open without much hope.

Charli 8:42pm — “Je suis désolé, chérie. We got held up at the paddock. I'm coming now. Please wait for me.”

You stared at the text for a long moment.

Then a tear fell. And another. They kept coming.

Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet tears sliding down your cheeks like kisses from a rose petal.

You’d told him about this performance months ago. He’d promised. Pinky promised. Charles never broke those. It was the childish nature in him.

Except now, with the season full swing, the Monaco GP madness around him, and press demands on every corner…

You’d been pushed down the list.

Again.

It was twenty-five minutes later when he finally arrived.

He burst through the backstage hallway in his Ferrari polo and jeans, hair slightly mussed, eyes frantic.

“Y/N!”

You didn’t look up right away. Just sat in the corridor still half-dressed, your bag open beside you.

His voice softened when he saw you.

“Oh, ma petite…”

“I’m not that little anymore,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on your bag zipper.

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, crouching in front of you. “But you’ll always be my little étoile.”

You sniffed.

“I danced without you.”

“I know. And I’m so proud of you.”

“You weren’t there to see it.”

Charles looked like he’d been hit straight in the chest.

He reached forward slowly, like you were made of glass, and gently tucked a loose curl behind your ear.

“I’m so sorry. The race weekend—it ran long, the media was insane—I didn’t want to miss it, I swear on everything.”

You nodded, barely. Only just.

He dropped to sit beside you now, shoulder to shoulder on the cold floor.

There was a pause.

Then: “You know what I used to do before every kart race?”

You shook your head.

“I would listen to that one Chopin piece. The one you used to practice with. The one with the soft piano and the sad ending. It made me think of you.”

Your throat tightened.

“You did not. Liar.”

“I did. Even in Formula 2. Even now sometimes. It reminded me of how hard you worked. How graceful you were. How pretty and neat. How I never wanted to let you down.”

You bit your lip, a tear escaping. A gentle hiccup escaped.

Charles turned to face you.

“You didn’t let me down,” you whispered. “I just… really, really wanted you to be proud of me.”

“I am proud of you,” he said, voice cracking a little.

You looked up, and there it was—his face, open and full of love and guilt and admiration all in one.

“I’m your big brother. But tonight, I was also the guy running through the parking lot like a maniac to catch his sister’s final bow.”

You laughed, watery.

“That sounds stupid.”

“It was stupid. And I still missed it. But I swear, next time—I will be there an hour early, in the front row, wearing a glitter tutu if I have to.”

You burst out laughing.

The ache didn’t vanish, but it softened.

He pulled you into a hug.

“You looked beautiful,” he murmured into your hair. “Even now, all tired and glittery and grumpy. You’re everything I’m proud of, (Y/N). Always.”

You buried your face into his shoulder and let yourself breathe again.

Back at home, he insisted on cooking pasta.

“You danced, I make dinner. That’s the rule.”

You sat at the kitchen island in your hoodie, finally warm and makeup-free, watching your Formula One driver of a brother burn garlic in a pan like an amateur.

“You’re not doing it right,” you teased.

“You sound like Enzo.”

“You cook like Enzo.”

“Watch it.”

“Maman cooks better than you and she makes toast with tomato sauce.”

He gave you a deadpan look.

“Rude.”

You smiled, slowly, for real this time.

Later, you lay on the couch, legs stretched over Charles’s lap as he scrolled through pictures from your performance that your ballet teacher had sent him.

“She sent me like fifty,” he muttered, zooming in. “Look at your arm here! That’s crazy! You looked like you were floating!”

You blushed.

“Stop hyping me up.”

“Never.”

You peeked at his phone screen. One photo caught your eye — you, mid-pirouette, lit from above like a painting.

You inhaled. “I… I really did that, huh?”

“You owned it, ma belle. No wonder people cried in the audience.”

Your eyes widened. “Someone cried?”

“Yeah. Maggie’s mom told Arthur.”

You covered your face, groaning.

“Oh noooo.”

He laughed and poked your ribs. “Famous already.”

You peeked at him. “Did you mean it? About wearing a tutu to the next show?”

“Do you want me to?”

You grinned.

“Only if you bedazzle it.”

“Done. Ferrari red.”

You laughed so hard your stomach ached and tears fell.

As the night wore down and the apartment dimmed to its sleepy hush, you curled into the corner of the couch, head on Charles’s shoulder.

He wasn’t talking now. Just scrolling through photos again, eyes fond.

“I was scared today,” you murmured suddenly. “Before going on stage.”

He looked down. “Really?”

You nodded. “I thought I’d fall. Or forget the choreo. Or freeze.”

He wrapped an arm around you. Strong and protective. “But you didn’t.”

“Because I pretended you were out there watching.”

Charles didn’t speak for a moment.

Then he kissed the top of your head.

“I’m always watching, even when I’m late,” he said quietly.

You smiled.

That was enough.

That was more than enough.

[knightswaypoint]

“Candid No. 24” by A. Penn Photo taken at “Camelot and Other Mythos” Exhibit, Natural History Museum

(Merlinktober Days 4 & 5: Foreign (Out of Place / Out of Time) & Lens)