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So i almost have 3.3k followers and i probably know a handful of you.
Send me the reason why you followed me. Send me a fact about you. Send me your favorite animal. Idc! Just talk to me! What was your favorite fic i wrote? Why are yall so afraid to talk to me? How is your day/night going? what do you do for a job?
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tag me in everything y'all write, dont care the fandom/pairing, i need more fics to read (plus i wanna keep my sideblog @caplanreblogsfics on a constant queue >.>)
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make sure to include the pairing(s) you are wanting these questions to be answered for . these should work for poly ships as well as monogamous . feel free to edit these as you see fit .
💕 How did they both realize “oh wait, this is actually love”?
🌹 Who fell harder & who fell first?
🫂 What’s their favorite way to hold each other when words aren’t enough?
🔥 What’s the pettiest thing they’ve ever argued about?
💋 Who says “I love you” first & how?
🌙 Who’s the little spoon & who pretends they hate it but secretly loves it?
💍 Would they ever get married? What would the proposal look like?
🧸 Who still has the very first gift the other ever gave them?
😈 Who is more likely to start chaos “for the vine” & who films it?
🎶 What’s their song - the one that makes them both tear up / grin like idiots?
☕ Who’s the morning person & how do they lure the night owl out of bed?
🛡️ Who jumps in front of danger for the other without thinking?
😳 What’s the most embarrassing thing they’ve walked in on the other doing?
💔 What’s the one fight that almost ended them?
🩹 How do they comfort each other after nightmares?
👀 Who gets jealous more easily & how obvious are they about it?
🍳 Who cooks & who sets off the smoke alarm trying to help?
🧳 If they had to run away together tomorrow, where would they go?
😏 Who is bolder in public (hand-holding, kisses, etc.)?
🌧️ Who steals whose hoodies when it rains?
🎂 How do they celebrate each other’s birthdays?
🖤 What’s the darkest “we’ll never tell anyone” thing they’ve done together?
💌 Who leaves little love notes & where do they hide them?
🛌 Who hogs the blanket & who ends up freezing dramatically?
😴 Who falls asleep first & who watches them with heart-eyes?
🚪 Who’s more likely to say “we’re not leaving this room today”?
🌸 What nickname do they have for each other that would mortify them if others heard?
🎤 Who sings in the shower & who secretly records it for blackmail?
💞 How do they act when one of them is sick?
🩸 Who would literally kill for the other & who would help hide the body?
🌅 Do they go on sunrise / stargazing dates? Which one do they love more?
😤 Who apologizes first after a fight, even if they weren’t wrong?
🧩 What tiny habit of the other do they find unbearably adorable?
🎪 Who plans elaborate surprise dates & who just wants to stay in?
👑 In their relationship, who’s the king / queen & who’s the knight / advisor?
🌪️ What’s the most chaotic thing they’ve done together on pure impulse?
💤 Who has the weirdest sleep-talking lines that the other quotes constantly?
🧡 What color reminds each of them of the other?
🕰️ If they could go back in time, what moment would they relive together?
😶 Who’s terrified of saying “meet my parents” & why?
🍷 Who gets tipsy first & starts spilling embarrassing love confessions?
🌿 Do they want kids/pets/plants together? What do they name them?
🪞 Who takes longer getting ready & who hypes the other up in the mirror?
💥 What’s the biggest risk one of them took for the other that the partner didn’t find out about until much later?
🧣 Who steals the other’s scarf / gloves “on accident” every winter?
🌌 What’s their “we made it through hell” memory they’ll tell their grandkids?
😘 Who kisses the other first thing in the morning, morning breath & all?
🩰 Slow dancing in the kitchen at 3 a.m. - who starts it?
⚓ If one of them had to leave forever, what would they leave behind for the other?
💫 Ten years from now, what random Tuesday are they spending together?
my doctor prescribed me Zepbound last week. I take my second dosage tomorrow. havent had any major side effects... except the food noise is SILENT.'
i havent been thinking about food at ALL this week. it's so strange, considering im always snacking or eating food. but i've had ENOUGH of being fat and not being able to walk around my street.
i want to be fit, and I want to be able to breathe, I dont want to be in pain anymore. I'm able to sit and stand for long periods of time, i've noticed. I don't want to buy shoes every other month because my feet and weight are flattening my insoles so quickly.
Starting this journey, i am currently 232.2 pounds. (as of October 17, 2024.)
I took my first dose this past Thursday and the appetite suppression was immediate for the first two or so days. The “food noise” in my head is GONE. I’ve had a couple headaches and some gas/burps/acid reflux.
I don’t see any changes yet (not surprising, honestly.)
Precovid I weighed 165 pounds. But a LOT of traumatic and emotional things have happened to me around 2018-2019 and I gained ALOT of weight up until this year.
I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. I’m a severely emotional eater and my hubs knows this. But almost within the hour of me taking my first dose, the food noise in my brain stopped. I don’t travel to my kitchen for snacks every half hour. I don’t find myself thinking of food nearly as often as I did this time last week.
Besides the acid reflux and constipation, I don’t have major symptoms yet.
Pre Covid I weighed around 165. I’m now 245. I’ve gained almost 100 pounds from 2019 to now. I know the weight isn’t as severe as a lot of other folks on here. But I was a SMALL child/teen/young adult. Before 2018, my heaviest was 140.
Idk what I’m rambling about. Just nervous for my second shot tomorrow.
currently a hiatus. off from work until the 21st when summer school starts for the students & then i work every other week.
i've been wanting to return to tumblr but this place distresses me so bad. nobody talks, nobody interacts. so im just most likely not returning from hiatus. i have posst that shwo where y'all can find me.
my mental health has been up and down for several months and im just over it.
i have absolutely no desire to return to this hellhole, or writing as of this current moment.
Summary: Loki transforms into you while you have your back turned away. And he falls in love all over again. [WC 711][Ao3]
Request: @samanddeansannoyingsis Loki shifting to look like reader and just loving how soft and plush she is. Always wrapped up in her little sweaters and leggings. And suddenly he understands how beautiful she is.
Warnings: fluff, supportive loki
Loki had meant for it to be a joke. A harmless little trick. That was how it started, anyway.
You had wandered off to the kitchen in one of your usual cozy outfits—an oversized sweater that fell off one shoulder and soft leggings that hugged your legs. The Avengers Tower was quiet that afternoon, most of the team gone on missions or errands.
And Loki… well. Loki was bored. So naturally, mischief followed. A shimmer of green magic flickered around him in the hallway mirror as he altered his form. Not into Captain America. Not into Thor. Not into some intimidating warrior prince. No. Into you.
At first he grinned at his reflection. Your face stared back at him—your eyes, your mouth, the little crease between your brows when you were thinking too hard. “Hm,” he murmured, tilting his head. The voice was yours too. Softer than his. Warmer. Curious, Loki reached down and touched his—your—arm. And paused. “…Soft.”
His brows furrowed slightly as his hands wandered experimentally. The sweater sleeves hung over his hands. The knit was thick and warm, the sort of thing meant for curling up on a couch rather than ruling kingdoms. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. Comfortable. Then he shifted again, touching his stomach. Your stomach. There was a softness there. Plush, warm, yielding beneath his palm in a way that startled him. He squeezed lightly. “…Oh.” Another squeeze.
Then a thoughtful hum. You had always described yourself with such cruel words. Too soft. Too much. Too plumpy. Yet standing there in your shape, Loki found himself… fascinated. His hands traced over the curve of your hips next. The softness of your thighs. The gentle weight of your body. It was warm. Real. Alive in a way sculpted warriors and statuesque Asgardians rarely were.
“You are built for comfort,” he murmured to the mirror, sounding almost reverent. He shifted his weight and the leggings stretched pleasantly as he moved. Flexible. Soft. Practical.
And suddenly— Suddenly he understood something that had puzzled him for months. Why he loved watching you curl up on the couch. Why your sweaters made him want to wrap his arms around you. Why the sight of you bundled in blankets made something strange and protective stir in his chest.
Because this body— Your body— Was made for warmth. For holding. For softness. His hands rested on the curve of your stomach again, thumbs rubbing lightly. “How have you convinced yourself this is anything but beautiful?” he murmured quietly.
Footsteps approached. Loki didn’t notice until you walked into the hallway and froze. Because standing in front of the mirror… Was you. Except the other you was poking thoughtfully at their stomach.
Your eyes widened. “…Loki?”
He turned. Your own face looked back at you with a slightly guilty expression. “Oh,” he said. Then he looked down at himself again, poked your stomach once more, and added thoughtfully, “I believe I owe you an apology.”
You blinked. “For what??”
“For not realizing sooner how lovely you are.”
You stared.
He gestured vaguely to himself. “This form is extraordinarily comfortable.”
“YOU ARE WEARING MY BODY LIKE A SWEATER.”
“And it is a very nice sweater.”
You marched forward, cheeks burning. “Turn back right now!”
Instead he tilted his head, examining you carefully. Then smiled. Slow. Fond. “Oh no,” Loki said softly. “I rather think I prefer you this way.”
Your brain short-circuited. “…What?”
His magic flickered, dissolving the illusion. Suddenly Loki stood in front of you again—tall, dark-haired, impossibly smug. But his hands moved immediately to your waist. Warm. Firm. Drawing you against him. Exactly where he’d just discovered he liked you most.
His arms wrapped around your soft middle like he had every right to be there. “You are warm,” he murmured against your temple. Your face felt like it might combust. “And soft.”
“…Loki.”
“And perfectly shaped for holding.” You tried to hide your face in his chest. He just hugged you tighter. “You should see yourself as I just did,” he added quietly. Because now he knew. Now he had felt it. Your warmth. Your softness. The way your body fit perfectly against someone who adored you. Loki pressed a kiss to your hair. “Magnificent.”
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Started this blog to get a handle on my fics. I realised I've been quite messy with reblogging all of my fics on my main @castielscaplan and i wanted to clean it up a bit. This space is solely for my own fics.
Summary: you keep knocking on his door. He keeps being goddamn shirtless. [WC 2.3K] [Ao3]
Warnings: flirting, shirtless billy, cocky billy (well, duh), teasing
@prettybubblesintheair87 did you order a shirtless Billy? Because I got your order hot, fresh, and ready to roll.
Shirtless Men Series
It starts as an accident. That’s the thing you’ll tell yourself later—over and over again—like it somehow makes this whole situation less humiliating. Because the truth? You really didn’t mean to walk in.
You barely even knocked. Just a quick rap against the doorframe before pushing it open, already halfway into your sentence—
“Hey, have you seen—”
And then you stop. Completely. Butcher. In his room. Standing with his back half-turned toward you, digging through a duffel bag like a man on a mission. Shirtless. Your brain goes blank. Not slow. Not buffering. Just gone. Short circuits. Broad shoulders. Scars scattered like stories you don’t get to hear. Muscles shifting under skin like he doesn’t even realize what he looks like. Or worse like he does.
“Door’s not just for decoration, love.” His voice snaps you back so fast it almost hurts.
You jerk, eyes darting anywhere but him. “I knocked!”
“Didn’t wait.” He turns then. Slowly. And that oh my FUCK, that’s worse. Because now it’s not just seeing him, it’s him seeing you seeing him.
That crooked smirk spreads like he’s been handed a gift. “…bit early in the day to be starin’, ain’t it?”
Heat floods your face. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Course you weren’t,” he hums, completely unconvinced. He doesn’t move to grab a shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to. Instead, he leans casually against the table, arms folding like he’s settling in for a show. “Go on then,” he adds. “What d’you need?”
You forget. Actually forget. “…what?”
“What. Do. You. Need?” he repeats, slower this time, eyes sharp with amusement.
Right. Right. Focus. “I—uh—I was looking for—” you gesture vaguely, brain scrambling, “—a file. Frenchie said you had it.”
“Mm.” He pushes off the table, walking past you. Too close. Way too close.
You can feel the heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and something darker, something that sticks. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.
“Next time,” he says quietly as he passes, voice brushing your ear, “might wanna keep your eyes up here.”
You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because if you do, you’re not sure you’ll look away.
You tell yourself it won’t happen again. You’re smarter than that. More careful. Which is why the second time you see him half naked is somehow worse.
You knock. You wait. You even call out, “Butcher?”
“Yeah, come in.”
Clear invitation. Safe. You open the door. And immediately regret every life choice that led you here. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed this time. Still shirtless. Hair damp like he just got out of the shower, a towel draped lazily around his neck. Water still clings to his skin, trailing down in slow lines that your eyes absolutely should not be following— But they are. Oh, for fuck's sake, they are.
“…you do this on purpose?”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
He looks up. Grins. “Do what?”
You gesture at him, vaguely furious. “This!”
He glances down at himself like he’s just now noticing. “Oh,” he says, deadpan. “Forgot my shirt.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Swear on it.”
You give him a look.
He leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him, completely relaxed under your scrutiny. “Funny though,” he adds, eyes flicking over your face, “you keep showin’ up for it.”
Your stomach flips. “That’s not— I knock!”
“And I answer.”
“That’s not the same as—” you stop, exasperated. “You could put a shirt on!”
He tilts his head, considering. “Could,” he agrees. Doesn’t move. Silence stretches.
Your heartbeat gets louder. And louder.
Then—
“You done lookin’?”
Your eyes snap up to his.
He’s watching you. Really watching you now. Not just teasing. Not just joking. Something sharper underneath.
You swallow. “I wasn’t—”
“Right,” he cuts in softly. “Still not starin’.”
There’s a beat. Then he reaches for a shirt beside him. Pulls it on. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact. “…happy now?” he asks.
You should be. You’re not.
After that, you start avoiding him. At least—you try to. Butcher makes that difficult. He’s always around. Always close. Always watching just a little too close, like he’s waiting for something. For you.
There’s the third time. You don’t knock. You should. You know you should. But you don’t. You push the door open cautiously, peeking in. “…Butcher?”
Silence. You step inside. Empty. Relief washes over you so fast it almost makes you laugh.
“Right,” you mutter to yourself. “Finally—”
“Miss me, did ya?”
You jump. Actually jump, spinning around— And there he is. Behind the door. Shirtless. Again.Of course. Your hand flies to your chest. “Are you serious?!”
He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Bit jumpy today.”
“You were hiding!”
“Wasn’t hidin’,” he shrugs. “Just standin’.”
“Behind the door.”
“Details.”
You stare at him. He stares back. And something shifts. Because this time— You don’t look away. Not immediately. Not at all, really. Your eyes flicker over him but you don’t flinch. Don’t scramble. Don’t pretend. You just… stand there.
And he notices. Of course he notices.
That smirk falters. Just a fraction. “…well,” he says slowly, “that’s new.”
Your arms cross over your chest, more for something to do than anything else. “What?”
“No running off,” he says, studying you now. “No excuses.”
You shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere dangerously close to bold. “Maybe I got used to it.”
His eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Interested. “Yeah?” he murmurs.
You nod. Big mistake. Because he steps closer. Slow. Measured. Like he’s testing something. And you don’t move. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But you don't move. You stand there.
“Used to it,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Or just enjoy it?”
Your breath catches. You should joke. Deflect. Do literally anything other than what you do next. “…maybe I do.”
Silence. Heavy. Charged.
His gaze sharpens, something darker flickering underneath the usual cocky amusement. “Careful,” he says quietly. “That sounds a lot like an invitation.”
Your pulse stutters. “Maybe it is.”
The words hang between you.
You don’t even recognize yourself right now. But you don’t take them back.
For a second— A long second— He just looks at you.
Then he huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. And suddenly he’s right there. Close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eyes. Close enough that the air feels thinner. “Been wonderin’ how long it’d take,” he says.
“For what?”
“For you to stop pretendin’.”
Your stomach flips. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Always am.”
“Cocky.”
“Gets results.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Not now. Not when he’s this close. Not when you can feel the heat of him again, stronger this time, intentional.
“Still think you’re not impressed?” he asks, quieter now.
Your throat feels dry. “…didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t deny it either.”
His hand lifts—Just slightly. Like he’s going to touch you. But he doesn’t. Lets it fall. And somehow that’s worse. “Next time,” he says instead, stepping back just enough to break the tension—just enough to make you notice the absence, “try not to take so long to admit it.”
Your breath comes back all at once. “…next time?”
That smirk returns. Slow. Dangerous. “Oh, there’ll be a next time,” he says easily, reaching for a shirt and finally—finally—pulling it on. But his eyes never leave yours. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite audience.”
And then— Just like that— He walks past you. Leaving you standing there, heart racing, thoughts a mess, one very clear realization settling in: You’re definitely going to walk in on him again. And next time? It won’t be an accident.
You last exactly two days. Two. That’s how long you manage to avoid him after… whatever that was. You throw yourself into anything else—helping Frenchie, reorganizing supplies, even willingly sitting through one of Hughie’s rambling explanations just to stay occupied.
Anything to not think about the way Butcher looked at you. The way he stepped closer. The way you didn’t move. Didn’t want to. It’s embarrassing, honestly. You’re better than this. Smarter. More in control. So yeah—two days.
Then you’re standing outside his door again. You don’t even remember walking there. Just suddenly… there. Staring at the wood like it personally offended you. “This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath. You should leave. Turn around. Make literally any good decision.
Instead you knock. Once. Soft. There’s a beat of silence. “Door’s open.” Of course it is. Your hand hesitates on the handle for half a second. Then you push it open. And step inside.
He’s not shirtless. That’s the first thing you notice. And weirdly? That’s disappointing. He’s leaning back in the chair, boots kicked up on the table, shirt on (tragic), sleeves rolled, watching you like he knew you’d show up. Which he probably did. “Thought you were avoidin’ me,” he says casually.
You shut the door behind you. “I wasn’t—”
“Mm.” That sound again. That I don’t believe you for a second sound.
You cross your arms. “I’ve been busy.”
“Sure you have.”
God, he’s annoying.
You take a step further into the room. “You always this full of yourself?”
“Only when I’m right.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Miss me?”
Your stomach flips. You hate that it does. “No.” Too quick. Too sharp.
His smirk widens. “Liar.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“Door.”
You blink. “What?”
“Lock it.”
Your brain stutters. “…why?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I said so.”
That should annoy you. It does annoy you. But something else curls underneath it—something warmer, heavier, pulling at your instincts in a way you don’t fully understand. “You don’t get to just—”
“Either lock it,” he cuts in, voice dropping slightly, “or leave.”
Silence. A challenge.
Your pulse kicks up. You turn. Slowly. Reach back. And lock the door. The click echoes louder than it should.
When you turn back,. He’s already standing. Closer than before. Not too close. But closer. And watching you like he’s finally got what he wanted. “Good girl,” he says quietly.
Your heart is racing now. “Happy?” you ask, trying to sound unimpressed.
“Getting there.”
He takes a step toward you. You hold your ground. Barely. “Y’know,” he continues, circling slightly—not touching, just there, “most people knock, get what they need, and leave.”
“I do that.”
“You wander in, stare at me like I’m somethin’ on display, then pretend you don’t like what you see.”
Your breath catches. “I don’t—”
“Don’t lie.” Soft. Firm.
Your back hits the table before you even realize you’ve been stepping back. He notices. Of course he does.
A flicker of something satisfied crosses his face. “Been real patient with you,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought I’d let you come to it on your own.”
You swallow. “Come to what?”
His eyes drop—briefly—to your lips. Then back up. “To this.” And then he’s there. Close enough that there’s no space left to pretend. Your breath stutters. “Still gonna tell me you’re not impressed?” he murmurs.
Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “…no.”
“Yeah,” he hums. “Didn’t think so.”
His hand comes up again. This time it doens't stop. His fingers brush your jaw, light at first, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. You don’t. You can’t. That small touch sends something electric down your spine. “Been watchin’ you,” he admits, almost lazily. “Every time you walk in. Every time you try not to look.”
Your grip tightens on the edge of the table. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“Not really.” Honest. Of course it is.
His thumb shifts slightly against your skin, tilting your chin just enough. “Supposed to make you stop pretendin’ you don’t want this.”
Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. “And if I don’t?” you whisper.
A beat.
“Then I let you walk out that door,” he says. No hesitation. No bluff. “But,” he adds, leaning in just enough that you can feel his breath now, “you won’t.”
Your breath hitches. “…you’re very sure.”
“Always am.” There’s that cocky edge again.
But underneath it, Something steady. Certain. Waiting. And God help you— He’s right. Because you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Don’t make a joke. Don’t break the moment. You just look at him.
And that’s all he needs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he closes the distance.
The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not rushed either. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything he does. His hand shifts from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm enough to keep you there, not enough to trap you.
Giving you the choice.
You make it. Your hands find his shirt—gripping, pulling him closer—and that’s when something in him snaps. The control cracks. Just a little. The kiss deepens, rougher now, more intent, like he’s done waiting, done pretending this isn’t exactly what he’s wanted.
What you’ve both wanted.
Your back presses harder against the table as he crowds closer, heat everywhere, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.
“See?” he mutters against your mouth, breath uneven now. “Knew you’d come around.”
You should argue. You don’t. Because right now? He’s right. And you hate that you like it.
When you finally pull back, your breathing is a mess. So is his—just slightly. His forehead rests briefly against yours, a rare pause in all that sharp confidence. “…took you long enough,” he murmurs.
You let out a shaky breath. “You’re unbelievable.”
A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “But you keep comin’ back.”
Your heart stutters again. And this time? You don’t deny it.
