#arthur/reader

[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

[shoot1ngst4r]

going out of your way to search up [insert character] ANGST and all you get is smut

[thebookbutterfly]

fanfiction isn’t enough, I need to chew on him

[scftangl]

Me, getting distracted for a moment in just in smut and now I don't know what position they are in:

[myladyship]

"After everything you have done. How will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."

[dustandthought]

Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that’s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

[hihomeghere]

[ramen-flavored]

[bitin-and-barkin]

STRONG OLDER MEN. I want to see a man, so rough and tough in the streets actually be a big sweetheart and SO nervous in bed. All flustered and whiney, rutting against your thigh like a one dollar whore. I need to see them overstimulated and crying from pleasure while you suck them off or eat them out. I want to see them be so scared about hurting you while they fuck you oh so gently, SO horny, but so afraid of hurting you. I wanna see one cry and whimper into your neck while they ride you soo well like a good boy <3 you let them cum as much as they want because they're being soo good for you (and they NEED that privilege cause they are soo sensitive and will cum so much) and they eat ALL of your praise up

[slaughter-kin]

oh my god…. MY SHAYLA

[marigold-field]

nothing, and i mean NOTHING, compares to joining a new fandom and reading through all the ____ x reader tags. it’s akin to opening gifts on christmas or recieving a package in the mail. actually, scratch that; it’s th equivalent of ascending to the heavens

[starlight-and-whiskey]

Under Your Skin - Ch7 pt.1

I wrote this chapter and it ended up being 10K+ so I panicked and split it into three... (pt 2 & 3 to come shortly)

Prologue Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ao3 Tags: @baizzhu @chonkercatto @heron-feathers @not-minho @warmsideofthepillow @photo1030 @multi-fandom3 @m1stea @littlebirdgot @violetlilly2020 ~~~~

“Ain’t no such thing.”

That’s what Arthur had grinned when you’d told him it was bad luck to see you in that white lace dress before your wedding. In the years that followed your marriage to Arthur in that ebbing summer of 1896, you mused that he must have been right. The rolling seasons brought more moves, bigger scores, more money – but as if the fates had granted clemency, the greater risks came with fewer losses. You were kissed by plentiful summers accompanied by Jesse’s playful giggles as he grew into a curious toddler, blessed by mild winters curled up beneath soft furs with the thick muscle of Arthur’s arms wrapped solidly around you both as you slept.

The bout of good luck held out for three whole years, give or take. The odd job gone wrong, the odd misfortune, but on the whole life was good. Well, except for maybe three hiccups.

The first was when John had come back.

It hadn’t been long after you and Arthur had wed that John returned. You’d been busy pegging out clothes when the whispers first reached your ears of his return, speculation murmured on the breeze.

“I’m telling you”, Karen whispered as she handed you another shirt. “Saw it with my own eyes.”

“You been at that whiskey?” Mary-Beth scoffed, neatly folding a worn union suit and setting it with the others.

“Must’a been”, you chuckled, shrugging it off as you glanced to where Jesse sat on the grass, chewing on a clothes peg. “John knows better than to waltz back in here after walking out like that.”

A damp balled-up union suit collided with your chest, and you gasped a little at the impact. “I ain’t no liar”, Karen hissed. “Mac came ridin’ in with him at sunrise.”

You chuckled under your breath and shook your head, but Karen only shoved hard at your arm, thumbing over her shoulder as the flap of Dutch’s tent finally opened. In an astounded hush, you watched as a ghost strode out from beneath the canvas, resettling the hat upon his head.

Mary-Beth’s voice came in a breathless whisper. “Oh my God.”

“Shit”, you breathed.

“Told you!”

With wide eyes, you watched as the familiar dark-haired man shook hands with Dutch, your mouth hanging agape as Mac, Davy and Hosea flanked the older man, offering thin nods to John.

“Does Abigail know?”, you managed, your eyes fixed as John meandered his way back to the campfire.

“Don’t reckon it’s Abigail you got to worry about”, Karen whispered.

You followed her line of sight to where Arthur was now wandering over, brushing his palms against each other to rid himself of the ache of an afternoon spent chopping firewood. Thankfully, Arthur hadn’t seemed to notice yet, his gaze firmly fixed on the babbling infant now pulling damp laundry from the basket. 

“Hey there, little man”, he beamed, stooping slightly to run a hand through Jesse’s hair. “You havin’ fun there?”

It was just around the time that Arthur was half stooping to pick up your son that he followed your gaze as you nervously glanced over your shoulder towards the chuck wagon. Immediately, he straightened, a sharp huff of breath puffing from flared nostrils as the muscles of his shoulders drew tight.

“John?”, he murmured, his teeth capturing the flesh of his lower lip.

Immediately recognising that throaty growl and coil of tense muscle, you reached out and gently lay a palm on his shoulder.

“Arthur…”

It was too late. With eyes set firm, he was already brushing you off and stalking his way across the clearing. Cursing under your breath, you looked to Jesse and then to Mary-Beth with an apologetic expression. Wordlessly, she only nodded in return with a sad smile as you turned to follow Arthur at a half-jog across the clearing.

“The hell you doin back here?” He barked as he strode like a man charging to battle towards the younger man, fists clenched, and eyes narrowed.

John's eyes grew wide in surprise, the gape of his lips betraying the slightest twinge of fear as Arthur barrelled towards him, broad fists gripping his collar in white-knuckled fists, forcing his legs to stumble backwards a few paces until his back collided roughly with the solid edge of the wagon. 

"We thought you was dead!" Arthur growled through a snarl, the veins in his temple bulging.

People paused in their work, heads turning as they fell silent one by one, knowing better than to attempt to intervene when that keen edge laced Arthur's voice. You, however, could see exactly where this was heading and grabbed at Arthur's wrist, tugging hard as your eyes flicked to Arthur's, noticing that unparalleled fury burning in blue set eyes.

"I'm sorry", John half-yelled back, palms raised in surrender. Arthur's grip did not loosen.

"Arthur, stop it!", you bit out, yanking again to no avail. 

"You walked out on us! You walked out on that boy!"

Squeezing further between the two, you pressed the flat of your palm firmly against Arthur's shoulder, one hand gripping at a thick, taught bicep.

"Arthur!"

Face still screwed up in anger and the veins of his forearms bulging, Arthur finally released his grip on John's collar with a hefty shove, allowing you to guide him a couple paces backwards. His barrel chest heaved, fists clenching and releasing, a scowl still etched on his features as he glared over your shoulder. Only when you forced his eyes to meet yours did they soften just a touch. 

"Not in front of your son", you said softly, loosening your grip. "Go cool off."

Despite the blood in his veins near boiling with rage, despite the way his skin prickled and muscles vibrated, he knew you were right.

“He…” Arthur stuttered through an intake of breath, swallowing words and huffing a breath through his nose, jaw working. With a throaty growl, he gritted his jaw and threw a finger over your shoulder at John. “He left.”

“I know.”

Arthur drew a long, shaking breath, casting a look over his shoulder to where Jesse sat contently pulling clean and folded laundry from a basket and then back to you. 

“You don’t get to just walk back in”, he murmured, his voice threatening to rise to a yell once more, the muscle in his cheek twitching. 

“I know", you said gently as you pressed your palm against his chest, feeling the thunderous pounding of his heart beneath his ribs, noting the way his teeth ground and gritted. "But you losing your senses ain't gonna help nothin'."

Lips pursed and nostrils flaring, he remained rooted to the spot until you gently reached up to cup his stubbled cheek, guiding his face back to yours.

“Just go calm down”, you whispered, a thumb stroking the line of his cheekbone. “Please.”

Casting John another withering stare, Arthur’s fingers traced your hip for a moment, barely grazing the soft cotton of your blouse as he muttered under his breath that he was gonna go take a walk, like it had been his idea the whole time.

“So…”, John said quietly behind you, smoothing out the crumples of his shirt left by the meat of Arthur’s fists. “You and Arthur, huh?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer, turning around just in time to see Abigail striding purposefully towards you both, her skirts swaying and eyes fixed on John.

“Abigail”, John mumbled sheepishly as he neared, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “How’s Ja-“

The crack of her palm against his cheek was so sharp it seemed to echo across the camp, the ferocity behind it snapping his head clean to the side.

“You horrible man!”, she bit out, her voice shaking and jaw clenched tight to prevent the tears welling in her eyes from falling. She didn’t wait for a reply, turning on her heel and stalking back towards her tent. John stood in stunned silence, a hand absently pressed to his already reddening cheek, and you both watched as Tilly and Karen followed without a word, casting looks at him that could have carved stone.

You heaved a heavy sigh, hands settling on your hips and tongue pressed to your bottom lip, frustration and sorrow tangling deep in your chest.

“Well, that was quite the welcome back”, John mumbled after a beat, causing you to glance up at him with an incredulous expression.

“Well, what in the hell were you expecting, John?”, you scoffed, shaking your head, before turning to leave.

"He...”, John called after you, something a little sad and a little broken lacing his tone. You turned back, just for a moment. “Arthur’ll forgive me, won't he?"

Exhaustion weighed heavy on you as you scrubbed your hand over your forehead, sighing deeply. "I don’t know."

"Maybe you could talk to him?"

For all his bravado, right in that moment John reminded you so much of a child. Desperate to seek approval. Flashing him a sad, half smile, you said gently, "Might just be best you stay out of his way for a while."

"Yeah", he nodded solemnly, turning his eyes to the dirt. "Yeah, sure."

You gave it an hour; Arthur would need at least that to settle the churning of anger in his gut. You knew exactly where he’d be, you could picture it clear as day. Sat by the river, his journal open in his lap with its blank pages staring up at him as he turned the pencil over and over in his fingers, starting out at the water as he tried to get the thoughts rolling in his mind in some sort of order before committing them to paper. You walked Jesse by the horses, rocking him slowly until those glistening blue eyes began to tire, each blink a little longer as he curled closer to your warmth. After settling him for his nap, you headed down the small trail to the river. It never did well to let that man stew in his own thoughts too long. 

He was right where you thought he’d be - leaning against a weather-worn fence just a ways from the bank, one boot hooked over the bottom rail, arms crossed at the wrist over the top, a cigarette dangling between his finger and thumb. The flap of his satchel was open revealing the worn leather spine of a journal shoved back too hastily, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He’d just finished writing – you knew that image too well. As got closer, you could make out the set of his jaw, as tight as iron, shadowed by the tilt of his hat. Arthur didn’t look up as you leaned on the fence beside him, but you felt the subtle shift in his body, the way he relaxed just a little. Wordlessly, he passed the cigarette to you, and you took a long drag, staring out at the ripples of water not too dissimilar from the waters you’d once sat by when you’d confessed your pregnancy to him, similar still to the river Arthur had fished at when he’d been told he was marrying you the following day. Funny, you thought as you blew out a steady stream of smoke. No matter where we go, no matter what place, somehow it all looks the same in the right light.

Taking another drag, you passed the cigarette back to Arthur, allowing him the silence he needed. It didn't matter. You knew him better than he knew himself. Beneath the anger bristling through his skin, he was hurt. You remembered it well, this stubborn silence, the way he used it to conceal the pain he’d felt when John had first left. Back when you and Arthur had been nothing more than midnight trysts. Back before Jesse and marriage and whispered confessions of love. Back when he had roused alone one morning to find the closest thing he'd known to a brother just up and gone.

No explanation. No goodbye. Just… gone.

Arthur had masked it well, that hollow hurt gripping his innards, hiding behind his usual gruffness, grumbling about irresponsibility and what a damn fool that boy was, turning inward on himself as he took himself off into the woods for hours on end. Arthur had played as much a part as Dutch and Hosea in raising John, and no matter their petty squabbles, no matter how much Arthur would grizzle about the younger man, he had loved him dearly in his own unspoken way. The betrayal had cut deep and turned him bitter, yet another glaring confirmation that everything Arthur loved would one day leave him, one way or another.

His momma. Mary. Isaac. Hell, even Copper.

That night, he had brushed past you, a hand skittering your waist in that way you had come to learn was a question. Tonight? You’d come to him in the dead of night, finding him awake and waiting. But that night had lacked the usual pleasantries, the whispered small talk and trailing fingertips. For a fleeting moment, he’d looked at you as if asking unspoken permission and your heart near cracked down the middle at what you saw in his eyes, the look of a man halfway broken. You’d answered with a delicate palm against his cheek, the soft press of your lips at the corner of his mouth. That had been all it had taken for the dam inside him to finally give. 

That night his touch had been rough – a bruising grip under calloused fingertips as they dug hard into soft flesh. His broad hands had clutched at you, dragging you closer, like you were the only thing keeping him from going under, the only thing keeping him from tipping over the edge. He’d kissed you like he was angry at himself for needing you this way, all teeth and heat. Rough. Unrelenting. There was no gentleness in the way he’d laid you back this time, an urgent desperation lacing every press of his searching mouth against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. Arthur had poured out his grief in a fervent clacking of his teeth against yours, in the slamming of his hips against your pelvis like a man possessed, and you had let him. You gave yourself over to him, meeting every bruising kiss with one of your own. You’d retaliated in kind with nails etching crescent moons into the thickness of his shoulder, with fingers threading though his hair, with your teeth nipping just hard enough at his lip to draw growling blasphemy from his throat.

And then, when it was done, when Arthur stilled above you with his chest heaving and the heat of his breath mingling with yours, something in him had cracked, the edge draining out of him like water carried in desperate hands. Arthur had sunk down beside you with a low and weary sigh, too ashamed to look you in the eye, but finding your hand all the same, his rough fingers curling around your knuckles with surprising care. In the dark, you had both laid there in silence for what felt like hours, skin slick and hearts gradually slowing pace. When he’d finally looked at you, he drew his lips into a thin line, swallowing thickly as his eyes traced the map of darkening bruises you were marred with, the patchwork of pink and purple that he’d kissed into your skin.

“M’sorry. I ain’t… I didn’t mean to be like that. I shouldn’t’ve…”, he’d murmured eventually, his voice hoarse and breathy and thick with remorse. “Just… I… M’sorry.”

“It’s alright,” you’d whispered, rolling over to nestle your head against his collarbone. As if on instinct, he’d wrapped a thick arm around you, a different emotion surging through him as you treaded your fingers with his again, your thumb brushing gently over the back of his hand. You’d both pretended not to notice the way his breath caught in his chest as you curled closer and slotting a thigh between his - the way he tightened his jaw to keep his lip from trembling when you drew his hand to your face, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “It’s okay, Arthur.”

It had been that moment. That precise moment. Amongst the sadness and anger that had scarred the day, you had laid in Arthur’s arms that night and realised in a bittersweet twist of fate that you loved him. Not for the delicate caresses beneath a moon-less night, not for the gentle care that had wheedled its way into his demeanour around you. No, you loved him for allowing you to see him this way. Broken. Raw. Hurt. For choosing you to soothe that ache in his bones. Unbeknownst to either of you in that moment, that had been the night you’d made Jesse.

“M’sorry”, Arthur said quietly, a soft plume of cigarette smoke curling from his lips, looking down at his boot as he chipped off loose dirt against the wood of the fence rung.

“Ain’t gotta be sorry”, you said softly, tilting your head to take in the strong, shadowed lines of a face that held far too more worry than it ought to. "You alright?"

Arthur drew a deep breath and tossed the end of the cigarette into the water, turning the words over on his tongue before swallowing them down, knowing you already knew them anyway.

“Yeah”, he grunted instead, kneading the meat of his palm with his thumb in that nervous way you recognised all too well.

Drawing a long breath, you turned your gaze back to the river, bumping your shoulder against his in a small nudge that pulled his mind back from where it had already begun wandering again.

"You know, hittin’ him ain't gonna fix anything."

"Might make me feel better", he grumbled, flexing his fist and releasing it again.

"No, it won't."

Arthur didn’t argue, didn’t even raise his eyes from his hands, allowing the comfortable silence to fill the space again for a moment.

“I know what will though”, you smiled softly.

"Hm?"

"There's a little boy in that camp who would very much like his daddy to go read him a story."

That did it. Just like that, something in him softened – the tension in his jaw finally slackening, the tension in his shoulders releasing a fraction, like he was easing back into himself again. As sure as the sun would rise each morning, the mere mention of Jesse would send the corner of Arthur's lip curling into that lopsided half-smile, dousing the turbulent bubblings of his torment with unmeasured ease. And despite the events that had transpired, today was no different. 

The throaty noise of a contained chuckle emanated through Arthur as he closed his eyes slowly and nodded. 

"Weather's fine today", he said quietly, opening his eyes again to squint at the sunlight, grounding himself in the soft kiss of the autumn breeze. "How bout we take the boy on a little walk instead?"

You knew what he was doing. He didn't want to return to camp just yet, knowing all too well that the sight of John would send him spiralling once more. Running a gentle hand down the column of his spine, you smiled softly at him. 

"Reckon Jesse would love that."

[kenniesf1]

what was that? | OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x leclerc!reader

summary: it's the 2025 monaco grand prix and yn leclerc finds out that oscar piastri is... an avid lorde fan???

yn.leclerc

liked by carlossainz55, arthur_leclerc, yourbff001, and 743,023 others

yn.leclerc she's in monaco ladies and gents! arthur can say he's not monegasque, but charlie and i know what's up :)

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user1 GUYS SHE'S GOING TO THE MONACO GRAND PRIX!!!!

user2 omg yn where have you been girl!

lando bro said she wasn't getting here 'til saturday smh

user3 LMAO she lied to lando 💀

yn.leclerc sybau and go kiss carlos or smth

carlossainz55 she's right lando, come home, the kids miss you

lando the meerkat?

charles_leclerc je ne veux pas que tu cries dans ma radio (i don't want you yelling in my radio)

yn.leclerc speak english 🤓

alexandrasaintmleux my favorite leclerc 💞 you look gorgeous

yn.leclerc ok stop talking to the mirror tf? ily

charles_leclerc share the love????

oscarpiastri photo creds???

user4 STOPPPP oscar sounds like a needy girlfriend

user5 have we ever even seen them speak

user1 no, she's taken (by me)

kimi.antonelli no, by me 🙃

yn.leclerc ANDREA KIMI GO DO YOUR HOMEWORK!

emmawatson beatiful!!!! liked by author

jackbenedwards lorde summer liked by author

charles_leclerc

liked by yn.leclerc, alexalbon, georgerussel63, and 1,203,923 others

charles_leclerc P2 in qualifiers. Not the result we wanted but we'll keep pushing. Forza Ferrari!

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yn.leclerc what was that? well, baby, what was that?

charles_leclerc don't call me baby creepo 😰

user6 i fear yn IS living lorde summer, jack edwards was so rights

oscarpiastri mdma in the back garden, blow our pupils up

yn.leclerc OSCAR JACK PIASTRI!!!! you're not coming to play, sir

user7 no way oscar is a lorde fan

user8 he def looked it up to impress yn 😭

arthur_leclerc i could've gotten p1 🤷

charles_leclerc the things i could say to you right now

pierregasly bro is lucky charles is pr trained

yn.leclerc pr? he hardly knows her

lando that made no sense

yn.leclerc your existence makes no sense kys

maxverstappen1 le curse is back

charles_leclerc BLOCKED ❌

oscarpiastri

liked by yn.leclerc, hattiepiastri, lando and 1,002,497 others

oscarpiastri Good start to the weekend. Excited for the race tomorrow. Thank you for the support!

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hattiepiastri you win at monaco or you're disowned

oscarpiastri only mum can do that?

nicolepiastri what hattie said

user9 HELPPPPPPPPP

charles_leclerc know your place tomorrow, son

oscarpiastri i can't lose my leo privileges

lando i look stupid

estebanocon tell us something new!!!

yn.leclerc wishing you luck! playing for a lot this weekend!

charles_leclerc 🤨

arthur_leclerc 🤨

user10 🤨

yukitsunoda 🤨

oscarpiastri You being here for Charles helped him last year. Maybe come to my garage and share that luck?

user11 oh he's good

charles_leclerc im boycotting you bitch

maxverstappen1 whole lot of lando...

deuxmoi posted a story!

deuxmoi Yn Leclerc has shown up to the 2025 Monaco Grand Prix wearing a McLaren dress and is currently in Oscar Piastri's garage

yn.leclerc

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc, charlixcx, and 813,200,191 others

yn.leclerc CONGRATS TO MY BIG BROTHER ON P2 AT MONACO! it's always gonna be your city charlie!!! on a sadder note, i will never be speaking to lando norris again, evil bitch :) and i got this oceanic feeling visiting someone's garage (sorry, i'm still a scuderia ferrari girlie)

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ferrari we missed youuu liked by author

charles_leclerc monaco and my own sister betrayed me today

lewishamilton i'll be a shoulder to cry on mate

yn.leclerc hoes over bros

oscarpiastri excuse me

user12 IM FUCKING CRASHING OUT I CANT BREATH

user13 i can feel the hardlaunch, it's within reach

lando 😔

yn.leclerc pensive face emoji? hon, you should be WEEPING

user14 tell him, yn

oscarpiastri i caught that reference ms leclerc

yn.leclerc didn't throw it mr piastri

mclaren so glad to have you!

ferrari go away, your colors wash her out

francocolapinto um she should be in pink and blue and white and other alpine colors

alexalbon aesthetic!

yn.leclerc can you pay for my dinner as well as george's?

oscarpiastri yn

yn.leclerc RIGHT! never mind alex, take lily

alexalbon was planning on it 🫡

yn.leclerc posted a story!

yn.leclerc can we be boyfrien' girlfrien'?

oscarpiastri please

oscarpiastri i want more than a supercut, yn

[no-144444]

the grid: when the media says something insane...

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req: Hi, I'd like to request a blurb about the drivers reacting to reader being talked bad about from an interviewer. Scenario-Interviewer: "Do you think the reason you lost today's race is because 'y/n' was here and had something to do with it?"

featuring: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Franco Colapinto, Logan Sargeant, Daniel Riccardo, Liam Lawson, Charles LeClerc, Carlos Sainz, Arthur LeClerc, Ollie Bearman, Max Verstappen, Paul Aron, Jack Doohan.

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Oscar Piastri: makes the interviewer feel dumb asf

“And how do you feel about the DNF today, knowing that it's breaking your record of competing in every lap so far this year? Is there any specific reason as to why you might’ve made that mistake? I did see some new faces in the garage today,” Danica asked.

Oscar frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

“I was just wondering if you count your partner, Y/n, as a bad luck charm now. This is her first Grand Prix, isn’t it?” 

He actually laughed in her face. “Do you seriously believe in shit like that?” he chuckled. “And no, it’s not her first, nor will it be her last.”

Danica stood, embarrassed. 

“Do you have any other questions?” he asked, polite as ever. She didn’t respond. “Thanks for the joke anyway, that was actually quite funny,” Oscar added as he moved onto the next interview, a bright smile on his face despite the poor race result.

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Lando Norris: insults the interviewer

“And how do you feel about the DNF today, knowing that it's cementing your loss in the Driver’s Championship? Is there any specific reason as to why you might’ve made that mistake? I did see some new faces in the garage today,” Danica asked.

He stared at her for a moment, trying to compose himself. “If you’re talking about my girlfriend, I’d suggest you just come out and say it, Danica.”

“Alright then, do you see her as a bad luck charm now? Considering this is her first race, if I’m right,” she asked outright. Jenson rolled his eyes beside her as Martin just chuckled. 

“Not at all, she’s here to support me and I’d much rather have her here for a day like today than a win. It’s called a support system Danica, I’m aware of the fact that you’re not a fan of those, but some of us actually benefit from caring about other people. And another thing, all of my bad races, you’ve been there. Maybe you’re the bad luck charm,” his voice cut through the tension in the cold Las Vegas air like a knife, and Jenson and Martin just started laughing as Danica stood there dumbfounded. “Maybe I should ask Sky to not bring you around as much.” 

He handed the microphone back and continued on with his day, then posted this later: 

landonorris

liked by pierregasly, lewishamilton, and 479,933 others

landonorris: idc if ur bad luck ur too sexy to let go of 🥴

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Lewis Hamilton: protective much?

“It’s Y/n’s first race in years, and yet you DNF for the first time in months, do you want to give us some insight to that?” Danica asked. 

Lewis’s eyebrow raised and an annoyed smile made its way onto his face. “What are you saying right now?”

“Well, it’s just strange that her first race in years, 2 to be exact, is the one you don’t finish.”

“Are you trying to insinuate that she’s bad luck or something?” 

“Is that what you believe her to be?” 

“Fuck no,” he scoffed. “She’s my wife, is what she is. I’m grateful that she’s here. I love to share my love of motorsport with my wife, and I don’t feel sorry for the media that she's been preoccupied with being pregnant and busy to be here for the last 2 years. I love having her come and support me, and I’m happy that I didn’t finish the fucking race, I get more time with my family now. I cannot believe you enjoy making shitty headlines like this. Danica, maybe just stick to fucking driving.”

With that, he walked away, and later made this post:

lewishamilton

liked by pierregasly, francocolapinto, and 2,393,932 others

lewishamilton: my good luck charms xx

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George Russell: flabbergasted that someone would have the audacity 

“Sorry about the result today George, do you feel like external factors made it more difficult for today’s race?” Danica questioned. 

“Y’know, it’s been pretty tough all year with the car but it really felt like we pulled back to the top today, and it was just a shame that Lando went wide and pushed me into the gravel,” he shrugged.

“And you don’t see your girlfriend as a bad luck charm? It is her first race, right?”

He death-stared her for a moment. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Well, we just wanted to know how you react to knowing that it’s her first race and it’s also the race you DNFed in.”

“I don’t have a reaction,” he scoffed. “Your headlines are going to be written anyway, it doesn’t matter what I say. I don’t see her as bad luck or whatever rubbish you’re going to paint this as, and I don’t really care what you think about it. Anyway, it’s not like you have the monopoly on perfect races, Danica.” 

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Kimi Antonelli: awkward and insulted 

“Sorry about the result today Kimi, do you feel like distractions made it more difficult for today’s race?” Danica questioned. 

“Umm…” he trailed off, looking at George confused. George shook his head, silently telling him not to answer. “I don’t know what you mean?” 

“Well there were external factors, obviously, but also your girlfriend was in the paddock for the first time this weekend, correct?”

He nodded. 

“So do you see her as some sort of bad luck charm, or something?”

He pulled a face of disgust for a split second. “No, not at all. She went to every single one of my F2 races so I don’t see how she could have been bad luck here when she was not bad luck there,” he shrugged. 

“So she’s not bad luck?” 

He chuckled awkwardly. “N-no. Like I say, she was at every one of my F2 races. I think she is lucky, if anything.” 

He walked away confused as George reassured him that they were just fishing for headlines and to ‘not give them the time of day’. He was slightly worried that you would think you were a bad luck charm and quickly found you and showed you that you weren’t.

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Alex Albon: shocked. 

“Sorry about the race today Alex, do you feel like distractions made it more difficult for today’s race?” Danica questioned. 

“Umm,” he kind of chuckled. “I don’t think so? I mean it was so wet so I’m not shocked that I went off.”

“But in the garage, do you think you would’ve been more focused if your girlfriend hadn’t been there?”

He just stared at her with a slightly shocked smile as she held the microphone to his face. “Did you actually just ask that?”

She didn’t answer, just nodding. 

“Well, why don’t we think back to every other race she’s been at this year. Monaco, Canada, Silverstone, Austria, and Baku, which were all my best races this season, apart from maybe Canada.”

“Yes, but today she was-”

“In the garage, the same as she always is. Wow, you’ll really do anything for a headline.”

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Franco Colapinto: Sassy asf 

“Sorry about the crash today, glad to see you’re ok Franco. Do you think this weekend has been a bit more difficult because of distractions or something new being in a paddock? We saw that it was your girlfriend's first GP this weekend, could she have anything to do with it?” Danica asked. 

He did a double take, staring at her. “¿Qué? Is that really what you think?” 

She shrugged. “It’s only a question.”

“It’s a stupid question,” he scoffed. “¿Por qué traería mala suerte? She has been at every race so far and I haven’t seen anyone complaining.” (Why would she be bad luck?)

“So she’s not bad luck?”

He laughed. “Do I have to repeat things 3 times for you to understand?”

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Logan Sargeant: angry

“Sorry about the result today Logan, do you feel like distractions made it more difficult for today’s race?” Danica questioned. 

He stared at her, then pushed the mic away from him. “I’m not answering stupid fucking questions about my girlfriend.”

And he walked off. And posted this later…

logansargeant

liked by pierregasly, oscarpiastri, jensonbutton, and 345,938 others

logansargeant: let's not bring my girlfriend into this, yeah?

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Daniel Riccardo: plays it off. 

“Sorry about the end of the race today Danny, do you feel like distractions made it more difficult for today’s race?” Danica questioned. 

He laughed, thinking she was joking. His eyes widened when he realised she wasn’t. “You think I can’t race because my girlfriend is in the back of the garage?”

“It is her first GP, correct?” 

He chuckled. “No, no it’s not. She’s always there, and anyways, I’m in the car, it’s not like I have all the time in the world to stare at her ass or something,” he smiled. “I know she’s beautiful but I don’t exactly see her when I’m going to the straight at 200 kilometres an hour.”

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Liam Lawson: sassy man apocalypse 

“Sorry about the end of the race today Liam, do you feel like distractions made it more difficult for today’s race?” Danica questioned. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused about the question. 

“Your girlfriend was here for the first time, could she be a bad luck charm for the team?”

“I don’t think she is but I do know that your interviews make me feel pretty fucking unlucky,” he scoffed before walking off. 

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Charles LeClerc: laughs in their face

“Charles, what do you think about the people saying that Y/n is bad luck in the garage?”

He started laughing and didn’t stop for about a minute. He was as bad as Lando, to the point that Carlos had to actually walk him off the fan stage. He came back on, teary-eyed and smiling. “I think it’s quite funny.”

“Evidently,” Carlos scoffed. 

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Carlos Sainz: …

“Carlos, what do you think about the people saying that Y/n is bad luck in the garage?” Danica asked.

“What people are saying that?” he asked. 

“The media,” she answered. 

“Well they always have bullshit to say. I’m just surprised they had the balls to go after my wife,” he scoffed. “They’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

“That sounds extreme-”

“It’s defamation of character and she’s my wife. Nothing is extreme.” 

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Arthur LeClerc: Won’t answer

“Sorry about the race today Arthur, do you think there are other factors, such as distractions, that messed up your race?”

“What a stupid question, no,” he scoffed before walking away. 

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Ollie Bearman: insulted

"Sorry about your race today Ollie, do you think that your partner Y/n being here might be a bad omen?"

He stared at her. "No. Why would she be?"

"It's her first GP and you DNF, if that's not bad luck I'm not sure what is."

"That's pretty rude," he scoffed. "Don't bring my girlfriend into this."

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Max Verstappen: guys…

"Sorry about your race today Max, do you think that your partner Y/n being here might be a bad omen?"

He stared at her, his eyes dark. "Fuck off."

"Excuse me?"

"That's bullshit, don't bring my family into this. If I have a bad race, I have a bad race, that's just how it goes. She isn't bad luck, she isn't for you to make headlines about and she's not here to just be a good omen. She's my partner and she's here to support me, that's it."

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Paul Aron: laughs in their face…

"How do you feel about the result to day, do you think things could've been different if someone wasn't distracting you?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"We saw your race engineer giving out to you and your partner Y/n for distracting you. Do you think she might now be a bad luck charm?"

He scoffed, laughing in her face. "Bullshit, someone turned into me and I didn't have enough time to react. Your headline can be about that, keep my girlfriend out of this."

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Jack Doohan: so normal about it! (...)

“Sorry about the race today Jack, do you think there are other factors, such as distractions, that messed up your race?”

He knew what they were trying to say. “Do you want to just say what you want to say to my face?” 

She was taken aback. “Do you think Y/n is a bad luck charm?”

He scoffed. “You’re seriously fishing for headlines when someone could’ve been seriously injured? That’s pathetic. And another thing, she’s not a fucking bad luck charm, she’s my partner, she’s not just a headline for you to fuck with.”

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[irissfoot]

gosh hes just so big and tough and manly. i wanna jump on him and kiss all over his face while caressing his big strong arms and chest.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

hiii how are you ?

can I request a dad Charles where his daughter tells everyone that she French instead of Monegasque (just like Arthur) and Charles is just losing it every time she says it

She's Monegasque, not French

It started innocently, as most things with toddlers do.

Charles was sitting in the Ferrari motorhome, his three-year-old daughter Yn nestled comfortably in his lap, her tiny hands clutching a crayon-streaked drawing of what she insisted was “Papa’s race car.” The sun was bright, the paddock buzzing with media and mechanics and laughter as the summer European leg of the season carried on in full swing.

And then it happened.

“Papa,” she said sweetly, tilting her head up at him, eyes wide and so heartbreakingly sincere, “I’m French.”

Charles blinked.

“Quoi?” he said, pulling back slightly, eyebrows lifting in gentle confusion. “Ma chérie, no, you’re not French. You’re Monegasque, like Papa.”

Yn looked at him, lips pursed, deep in thought. And then she gave a little shrug. “Non. I’m French, like Uncle Thur.”

Charles groaned softly and let his head fall back against the couch. “Not this again.”

From across the room, Arthur—lounging lazily in a chair, eating grapes like he was Caesar in a past life—choked on his laughter.

“I didn’t teach her that,” Arthur said through wheezes. “She came up with it on her own. Genius, really.”

“You encourage it!” Charles accused, pointing an indignant finger at his younger brother. “You always say you’re French!”

“Well, I am French,” Arthur said with a grin. “Monegasque passport and everything. And clearly, Yn has excellent taste.”

“Excellent taste in traitors. And Monaco is not France,” Charles muttered, pulling Yn closer as if cuddling her tightly would somehow absorb her back into Monegasque pride.

But it didn’t stop there.

No, Yn had decided. French it was.

She told the Ferrari PR team she was French when they asked where she was from. She announced it proudly to the camera when someone tried to film a cute moment with her and her dad. She whispered it solemnly to Carlos while sitting in his lap eating strawberries.

“Papa’s sad ‘cause I’m French,” she told Carlos.

Carlos, eyes sparkling with mischief, leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s okay, Princesa. I’m Spanish, and he still talks to me.”

“Does he love you?” Yn asked, dead serious.

Carlos blinked. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Then maybe he’ll still love me even if I’m French.”

Behind them, Charles face-palmed.

The drivers got wind of it quickly—because of course they did.

By the next day, the jokes were relentless.

“So,” Lando said at breakfast in the hotel, stirring sugar into his coffee like he was preparing to deliver a monologue. “Do I address her as ‘Mademoiselle Yn’ now or...?”

“She’s not French,” Charles groaned.

“She told my engineer she wants her birthday cake in the shape of the Eiffel Tower,” Max deadpanned, walking by and tossing Charles a sympathetic look. “Good luck with that.”

Even Seb, who was visiting that weekend with his kids, gave Charles a comforting pat on the back. “At least she’s not saying she’s German. Yet.”

And then there was Esteban.

“Oh, this is fantastique,” Esteban beamed, scooping Yn up in the paddock one afternoon. “You’re French, just like me!”

Yn squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “Oui!”

Charles practically melted into the tarmac. “Mon dieu…”

But it was Arthur who reveled in it most.

He started wearing a beret. A beret, for god’s sake.

One afternoon in the hospitality tent, he presented Yn with a baguette and a small fake mustache. “For my fellow French citizen,” he declared proudly.

“Merci, Uncle Thur!” Yn beamed, sticking the mustache crookedly on her nose.

“I am living in a cartoon,” Charles mumbled into his hands.

No amount of explaining helped.

“But Monaco is in France,” she argued one night while Charles tucked her into bed in the team’s motorhome. “It’s right there.”

“No, chérie,” Charles said gently, brushing her curls back. “It’s close, but it’s its own country. Like Papa said before, remember?”

“I like France better.”

He sighed and tried the next best tactic: bribery.

“If you say you’re Monegasque again,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Papa will buy you ten ice creams tomorrow.”

Yn narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “What kind?”

“Any kind. Strawberry. Chocolate. All of them.”

“Hmm…” she tapped her chin with exaggerated thought. “I still wanna be French.”

He clutched his chest. “Traitor.”

The situation hit a new peak during the Saturday driver briefing. Yn, accompanied by Carlos and Charles, had been allowed to come along briefly before things got official. She toddled in wearing sunglasses way too big for her face and a little Ferrari cap.

Yuki crouched down to her level with a big smile. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Yn.”

“I’m French!” she declared proudly, striking a pose.

Yuki laughed. “That’s so cool! Then you must know that Uncle Pierre is also French!”

Yn froze.

All the drivers went still.

Charles raised his head slowly, eyes narrowing.

Yn’s nose scrunched up.

“…Uncle Pierre?”

“Yes,” Yuki chirped, unaware he was about to break the world’s most stubborn three-year-old. “He’s very French. Like super French.”

The silence that followed could have swallowed a pit lane.

Charles watched her face shift—concentration, confusion… and then determination.

She took off her sunglasses, turned to her father, and declared solemnly, “Papa. I’m not French anymore.”

Charles blinked. “You’re not?”

“I’m Monegasque now.”

“...Why?”

She folded her arms. “I don’t wanna be the same as Uncle Pierre.”

“WHAT?!” Pierre shouted from across the room, utterly betrayed.

Arthur was on the floor, laughing so hard he nearly cried. “Nooo! The French alliance has fallen!”

Carlos, barely holding it together, whispered, “Monaco wins.”

Charles scooped Yn up with the biggest grin he’d worn in days. “You have made Papa so proud.”

Yn patted his cheek. “Do I still get ice cream?”

He laughed, hugging her tight. “You can have all the ice cream you want, mon amour.”

Behind him, Pierre was muttering in disbelief, “What did I do? What did I do?”

And from that day on, Yn was proudly, defiantly, loyally Monegasque.

Until next week, when she decided she wanted to be Italian because “Papa’s car is red like Italy.”

And Charles just sighed into his espresso.

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Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀