#x reader fic

[dindaganu]

I need a fic about Soldier! Arthur Kirkland x Native Malay! Fem! Reader that set before Malaysia declares independence from British....

I have many ideas these past few days about this Soldier! Arthur Kirkland x Native Malay! Reader thing that I just don't know which plot should I choose.

(Clearly not the reason why I have a writer block that make me unable to write for my Patriotic! Reader series...)

[poindextersgirlforever]

which writers use animal metaphors? I hate it too, I want to know beforehand so I can stay away from them

Honestly I blocked them a long time ago but I block any people that have sexual animal metaphors, cruelty of any type of animal, or uses memes that are of animals to sexually react to a celebrity crush.

Like I saw a fanfiction where it was about Bucky, and he I think plunged a knife into a wolf's neck and I couldn't. I was fuming. I know it is fanfiction and it is not real but as someone who is a huge animal lover I cannot read that.

[scribble0rat]

I’m so hungry for my x reader requests I gave too..

I KNOW TO HE PATIENT AND LET WRITERS TAKE THEIT TIME BUT IM SO HUNGRRRYYY

guuuuhhh I be checking every day ✌️💔💔

Me waiting outside of the writers blogs I requested on…

[zombieegurl]

Three days ago I got this really sweet ask with a really cute Gerran Howell x fem!reader fic plot

However I don't write about real people.. (which is probably something I should put in my pinned post)... But I really like the idea!!! So if anything I'll do it but change it to an actor!dennis au or something idk just putting it out there in case the anon sees this or SOMETHING 😭😭😭😭

Okay bye love you guys

[thenightwinggf]

446.5 ly

Benjamin 'Dex' Poindexter x f!reader

word count: 1k

summary:

out of everywhere you've woken up after a night out drinking, wakin' up in your sullen, vaguely scary neighbors apartment after too many drinks might be the worst one.

tw questionable morality

You reached towards the clipped metal of an unfamiliar bed frame, not quite registering the scene. The edges of your vision are blurry, memories past your third margarita simply flashes of movement, a firm touch guiding you, hands fumbling with keys, a chill spreading up your arms.

Everything was upside down, you were peaking through spaces between the curved metal and trying to identify what you saw within them: green cabinets, a table that looked shaky with hanging pots and utensils in the background. 

Too minimalistic, too clean to be your own apartment. You were half to an explanation, almost there, groggy, still waking up and slow to register that this was your neighbors apartment. Something you only faintly recognized from when he had first moved in and you, being endlessly and abundantly curious about everything that didn’t concern you, leaned to the side to peak past him while your hands were full of sliced, carefully wrapped fruit for him. 

Really, you just wanted to see what your neighbors were talking about. How mean could he be? You found he wasn’t really mean at all. He just had that sort of stern, solemn look to him—perpetually anticipating the worst. He was off-putting, definitely, a little awkward and he greeted you quietly, eyes always averted. 

Your head was pounding, a consistent and aggressive force not dissimilar to the one threatening to split from your chest. You want to stand, wanted to communicate this to your legs that definitely should be, at minimum, working to stand. Then came the realization you were on your back—everything wasn’t upside, this wasn’t some demented tilt-a-whirl, you had been comfortably on your back, now you felt the bile begin to rise. You clamped your lips tightly shut, the mortification of potentially throwing up all over your too handsome neighbor’s apartment enough to make you feel the need to skip out on your lease. 

You couldn’t fathom why you were here. Your stomach was clenching, the weighted blanket draped half-over your lower half was too warm, almost burning. Who used a heated blanket in the summertime? You lowered your hand, searching for the fabric to toss it off but brushed against something very, very soft and too much like hair. Your hair stiffened, the weighted blanket moved, the weighed blanket let out a soft hum then looked up at you with eyes that were horrifically clear, aware.

The scene in front of you snapped into place. You were on your back, in a shirt that was too big, too soft, most definitely not the tiny minidress that you had left in. You were unbearably sore, and this was your neighbor laying on you—whose name you still didn’t know, something, something with a ’T’? Or was it a ‘D’? A ‘B’? though Mrs. Smithers had introduced the two of twice. You had once received mail for a ‘Benjamin’ that matched his address and he had taken it, though you swore you had heard another man call him something with a ‘D’’??

You hadn’t been sure when a good time to casually ask for his name was before and now, with him situated between your spread thighs wearing only his boxers and, your eye twitched, his socks, with his arms wrapped under your legs as he used your stomach as a pillow for his head you didn’t think that casual scenario would ever appear. 

You swore his muscles rippling with just his breathing. 

Even in your most depraved, filthiest imagining he had never been this built. You also hadn’t anticipated the excessive scars that covered him, especially the long, jagged surgical scar that went up the length of his spine. Your face heated at the sheer extent of the reddened marks from nails you assumed to be yours, immediately looking away. You needed to focus on the task at hand: find your underwear, find any article of clothes that belonged to you. 

You didn’t get a chance to, as he began to gently push the shirt that was most definitely his up, slowly, until if he had pushed up just slightly more, your pussy would’ve been exposed. “W-wa-wait!” Your hands went beside his, pushing down at the fabric. 

“We’re neighbors.” You reminded.

He tilted his head, a movement too innocent for the devious quirk of his mouth—a man satisfied, smug and still annoyingly endearing.

You couldn’t remember stumbling home, you couldn’t remember running into him and more importantly, couldn’t remember why you were so sore, but in that moment, you would’ve given anything to relieve it.

 “I—  Make me breakfast first, at least.” His chest rumbled with laughter, the sensation vibrating against your stomach, 

His studio was cast in the warmth of gentle sunlight, this was the type of moment that existed only in cheesy romcoms where your neighbor should’ve been looking up with a twinkle in his eyes, excitement should’ve been coursing through you--this should’ve been the beginning of the rest of your life. 

This should’ve been a whirlwind romance waiting to happen, this was how they began, after all: the startling attractive neighbor, the one-night stand, him draped over her with a lazy smile. It was something so casual, so perfect, something so cliche, something you innately felt to be practiced. 

None of that was happening. This wasn’t a romcom. You found the stillness in his eyes to be deeply unsettling. You felt yourself waiting for his mouth to split open, to stretch unnaturally into a gaping, toothy maw and for him to swallow your head whole, then bite it clean off your body. 

In this moment, your neighbor was less man and more unpredictable monster. This was the man who always looked like he was having the worst day of his life, this was the stern man you waved at and watched the three second delay as he tried to remember how to be a person and move his hand in a weak wave back after your cheery ‘good morning’s. 

He more thousands of red flags bundled together in the shape of a man so attractive that despite every ounce of reason within you telling you otherwise, you found your hands snaking through his short, messy blonde hair, “I like my eggs over easy, with both salt and pepper please.” 

[maltes3]

Yandere x Lookalike!Reader

When he was a volatile, impressionable teenager, he didn't just have a crush, he had an awakening. His first love was a whirlwind who completely rewrote his internal chemistry, introducing him to an intensity of emotion he had never known before. When their family abruptly moved away across the country, it didn't just break his heart; it halted his psychological growth. He became a man perpetually frozen in unresolved grief, forever searching every crowded street, campus courtyard, and office hallway for a specific tilt of the chin or a familiar laugh.

When he first saw you sitting at your desk on your first day at the company, his entire world completely stopped spinning. It wasn't just a casual resemblance; you were a living, breathing ghost. You shared the exact same structure of the jaw, the same shade of hair under the fluorescent lights, and a laugh that sent a physical jolt straight through his spine. He didn't see you; he saw a second chance given to him by the universe. His courtship of you was incredibly intense from day one, driven by a desperate, frantic need to lock you down before you could ever disappear like the original.

During the initial months of dating, the cracks in his perception were small enough for you to look past. You’d mention your intense seafood allergy, yet two dates later, he’d enthusiastically surprise you with reservations at a high-end sushi bar, looking entirely deflated when you reminded him. He’d casually drop off a lavender-scented candle at your apartment, despite you explicitly telling him you preferred vanilla. You played it off as standard relationship jitters or a busy work schedule, making him a bit scatterbrained. In reality, his brain was actively overriding your actual identity, forcing the preferences of a ghost onto your shoulders.

Once you finally moved into his apartment and shared a bed, the haunting became a nightly occurrence. He was an incredibly restless sleeper, his fingers constantly tangling into your hair with a tight, almost painful grip as if ensuring you wouldn't vanish into the mattress. In the dead of night, his breathing would hitch, and he would muffle broken, frantic whispers into the crook of your neck. You’d lay awake in the dark, listening to him beg a phantom not to pack her bags, his voice dropping into a raw, pathetic whine you never heard from him during the day.

When you finally confronted him about his late-night mumblings, he didn't panic. He sat you down, held your hands tightly, and spun a beautifully curated, vulnerable story about his teenage heartbreak. He admitted that the family moved away, that it shattered him, and that he had carried the weight of that loss for years. He looked directly into your eyes, his expression full of a tender, manufactured sincerity, and told you that meeting you was what finally allowed him to heal and move on. You felt a deep wave of sympathy, completely reassured that you were his present and his future. You didn't realize it was a calculated lie to keep you from digging deeper.

A few years into the relationship, his behavior quietly mutated from romantic to deeply controlling. He started taking over your personal aesthetic entirely under the guise of "spoiling you." He would come home from business trips with expensive garment bags, presenting you with structured, vintage-style dresses and heavy cardigans that completely clashed with your casual, modern style. If you hesitated to wear them, his polite demeanor would instantly freeze, his eyes going entirely dark and hollow. "I spent hours looking for this specific cut, love. It would look so perfect on you. Just put it on for me. Please." You’d change into them just to keep the peace, unaware that you were literally dressing up in a dead relationship's uniform.

The true horror of your reality didn't hit you until a quiet Sunday morning in your kitchen. You were pouring coffee, chatting about a mundane work project, when you accidentally dropped a mug, sending ceramic shards across the tile. He instantly bolted out of his chair, his face pale with a frantic, unhinged panic. He grabbed your waist, pulling you away from the mess, his voice cracking with a terrifyingly familiar terror as he checked your hands for cuts. "Oh god, are you okay? I’ve got you, [First Love's Name]. I won't let anything happen to you, I swear—"

The kitchen went completely dead silent. The wrong name hung heavily in the air between you, absolute and undeniable. When you froze, staring at him with a look of pure, creeping dread, his grip on your waist didn't loosen it actually tightened, his knuckles turning white. He didn't apologize. He didn't look remorseful. Instead, a slow, dark, and utterly consumed smile spread across his face as he leaned down, burying his face in your hair, entirely indifferent to the fact that his mask had completely shattered. "Ah... you heard that, didn't you? It doesn't matter, sweetheart. You're here now. You look just like her. You dress just like her. You're never going to leave me like she did."

The first escape attempt happens less than forty-eight hours after the kitchen facade shatters. You wait until his breathing evens out into that heavy, restless rhythm, carefully unpeeling his white-knuckled grip from your waist millimeter by millimeter. You don’t grab shoes, you don’t grab a coat, and you certainly don't grab your phone, you know he monitors the GPS. You manage to unlock the front door and sprint three entire blocks into the freezing night air before a sleek black car quietly pulls up to the curb beside you. The door clicks open, and he looks out at you from the passenger seat, his expression completely blank, holding the very jacket you left behind. He doesn't yell when you get in; he just wraps the coat around your shivering shoulders and sighs against your hair. "She tried running away into the rain once, too. You really are identical to her in every single way, aren't you?"

The security in the apartment upgrades immediately, turning your living space into a high-tech fortress. The physical keys are replaced with biometric scanners that require his fingerprint, and the windows are fitted with reinforced safety glass that only opens a few inches. He frames this extreme lockdown as a profound act of devotion, telling you that the world outside is simply too dangerous for someone as fragile as you. He begins working entirely from home, setting up his laptop right across from wherever you are sitting. If you try to slip into the bathroom for too long just to catch your breath, he will knock softly on the wood every two minutes, his voice a sweet, chilling purr through the paneling. "Just checking on you, sweetie. Don't fall asleep in there."

Your second attempt is far more calculated, taking weeks of quiet compliance to make him lower his guard. You memorize the schedule of the grocery delivery person, and when the door scanner clicks open for a brief ten seconds, you dive past the delivery rack and sprint down the emergency stairwell. You make it all the way to a crowded train station, your heart hammering against your ribs as you blend into the sea of commuters. But before you can even step onto a train, a hand tightly slips into yours, locking its fingers with yours in a brutal, unyielding grip. You look up, terrified, to find him standing right beside you, smiling warmly at a passing elderly couple as if you're just a normal, affectionate duo. He leans close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Did you really think I wouldn't track my own heartbeat? Let's go home, [First Love's Name]. You've had your fun."

The psychological punishment for your resistance is a slow, suffocating erasure of your actual self. He doesn't use physical violence; instead, he completely replaces your remaining personal belongings with her history. You wake up one morning to find your entire makeup vanity cleared out, replaced by the specific vintage perfume she used to wear. Your favorite books are gone from the shelves, replaced by journals filled with poetry and notes written in her handwriting from years ago. He will sit on the edge of the bed, brushing a silver hairbrush through your strands, forcing you to listen to endless stories about her childhood. He is systematically drowning your identity, using your physical body as a canvas to paint a dead relationship back to life.

By the time your third escape attempt fails after you try to scream for help from the apartment balcony, only for him to effortlessly pull you back inside and lock the glass, something inside you completely snaps. The constant exhaustion of fighting a man who views you as a literal reincarnation wears your nervous system down to nothing. You stop fighting the vintage dresses he lays out for you. You stop flinching when he uses the wrong name in his sleep. When he holds a spoonful of soup to your lips or pins a specific cameo brooch to your collar, you just stare blankly ahead, letting him mold you into his perfect, silent doll.

The true horror of the aftermath is the terrifying realization that your compliance gives him the ultimate, twisted victory he has been chasing for a decade. He looks at your hollow, unblinking eyes and your complete lack of resistance, and he feels an intense, manic euphoria. In his warped mind, he has finally corrected the mistake of his youth. The first love who broke his heart by leaving no longer exists; she is trapped right here in his apartment, wearing the clothes he chose, eating the food he bought, and completely dependent on his touch. As he pulls your numb, unresisting body into his lap, burying his face in your neck with a deep, shuddering sigh of relief, you realize you are never getting your name back.

[lou-4-81]

Masterlist

there's not a lot but it shall grow

Dennis Whitaker

i'll look after you dennis whitaker x fem!reader reader has a bad day at work, cue dennis being a good bf and helping her deal with the day she’s had

put you first in progress

Frank Langdon

natural at disaster in progress

Jacaerys Velaryon

coming soon

if anyone has any requests, then my asks are open, cannot guarantee they'll be written but if there's an idea that speaks to me then i shall see what i can do 🫶🏻

minors please do not interact, i won’t be writing anything nsfw but just as a principle