Just my own Fic Reblogs

sideblog of @castielscaplan 31

[caplanbuckybarnes]

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.

32 Female

My Masterlist Tag List Ao3

[castielscaplan]

A Taste of Royalty

Summary: The prince comes to visit your food stall at the market

Warnings: fluff

WC: 469

Read on Ao3! Tag List

The scent of freshly baked pastries filled the air, sweet and buttery with a hint of cinnamon. You wiped your hands on your apron, your heart fluttering as you packed the last of the treats into a basket. Today, the prince himself was visiting the market—Prince Stephen Strange. The thought of him tasting your pastries was enough to send a nervous thrill down your spine.

You had never seen the prince up close, only heard stories. People said he had a rugged charm, much different from the polished princes you read about in fairy tales. His hair was a little messy, his smiles quick and easy. It was hard to imagine someone like him eating something as delicate as the pastries you baked.

Still, you had heard rumors from the palace staff. “The prince enjoys my pastries?” you had asked in disbelief when a maid had casually mentioned it last week. She’d grinned and nodded. “He always asks for more,” she’d said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Now, with the basket in hand, you stood behind your stall at the market, waiting. You could hear the murmurs growing louder, the excited whispers signalling the arrival of royalty.

And there he was.

Prince Stephen moved through the crowd confidently, dressed in clothes that didn’t scream royalty but still commanded attention. His eyes, sharp with delighted interest, scanned the stalls before landing on yours. For a split second, you thought you were imagining it, but then he smiled—directly at you.

Your breath caught as he approached. “You’re the one who makes the cinnamon tarts, right?” he asked, his voice friendly, not at all what you expected from a prince.

You nodded, words failing you for a moment. “Y-Yes, Your Highness. I—I have some right here if you’d like.”

Stephen grinned, leaning casually on your stall as if you were old friends, his face reflecting absolute delight at the news. “Perfect. I’ve been craving them for days.” He reached for one, his fingers brushing against yours as he took the tart. “These are the best in the kingdom.”

You blinked, hardly able to process his words. “The best?” you echoed, cheeks warming.

“Absolutely.” He took a bite, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment in bliss. “I’d eat these every day if I could.”

Your heart soared, the nervousness melting away. “I… I could make sure there’s a fresh batch at the palace whenever you’d like, Your Highness,” you offered, your voice small but hopeful.

Stephen’s eyes twinkled as he looked at you, swallowing the bite of pastry. “You might just have to, or I’ll keep coming to the market just to find you.”

Your heart raced at the implication, and for the first time, you dared to smile back. Maybe this prince was more than just a distant figure after all.

[castielscaplan]

Rooted Fates

Summary: Stephen feels familiar with you but he doesn't quite know why.

WC: 1k

Warnings: none? soulmate au?

read on ao3! Tag List

The night was quiet in the Sanctum Sanctorum, save for the soft hum of arcane energy that lingered in the air. Stephen Strange stood in the dimly lit library, his fingers tracing the edges of a weathered tome, lost in its pages but distracted by something deeper—an almost unshakable feeling that something was missing. It was a sensation he couldn't quite place, like a persistent whisper he could never quite hear clearly enough to understand.

Then, the door creaked open, and a soft voice broke through his reverie.

“Stephen.”

He looked up, his sharp features softening slightly as he met your gaze. You were standing in the doorway, the faintest hint of a smile on your lips. The air around you seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow, a gentle aura that wrapped around you like a second skin. Your magic—botanical manipulation and healing—was always subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space.

You weren't just beautiful, though that much was obvious to anyone who’d ever looked at you. It was something else, something deeper. The connection between the two of you stretched beyond this lifetime, beyond this reality. And though Stephen didn’t understand it fully, he knew it was undeniable.

You closed the door behind you and stepped further into the room, the warm light from the candles flickering across your face. The flowers that had once been so bright and vibrant in your presence were now blooming softly in the corners of the room, their petals glowing faintly.

“Busy?” you asked, your voice carrying that familiar warmth that never failed to ease the tension in his chest.

“Not really,” Stephen replied, closing the book with a soft snap. He pushed it aside and looked at you, though his eyes held a distant curiosity. “What is it, Y/N?”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing the room to stand before him. “You’re always lost in those books, Stephen,” you teased softly, your fingers brushing his. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like the entire universe had paused. The touch of your hand on his sent a ripple of recognition through his chest, as though some long-forgotten memory had awoken.

He blinked, his breath catching for a moment. He knew you, he knew you.

But not from this life.

A ripple of images flashed behind his eyes—another life, another time. The two of you, in a meadow filled with flowers, your hands entwined as you whispered secrets to one another. The feel of your breath on his skin, the warmth of your touch. It was a feeling of peace, of home, but it was fleeting, vanishing before he could fully grasp it.

“Stephen?” you asked again, your voice a little quieter this time, concern lining your features.

He blinked, shaking his head as if to clear the sudden onslaught of memories. “Sorry. I... I just had a moment.”

You frowned slightly but didn’t push him. Instead, you stepped closer, your magic wrapping around both of you like a protective cocoon, filling the room with the scent of fresh earth and growing things. “Is everything alright?”

Stephen swallowed hard, unsure how to explain what he had felt—the recognition, the weight of it. The connection between you wasn’t new, but it felt like something more than just fate. It was as if the two of you had known each other across lifetimes. He couldn’t put it into words, but the magic between you—the way it pulsed in time with his own heartbeat—spoke a truth his mind couldn’t yet comprehend.

“I think I remember you,” he said finally, his voice rough with the raw honesty of his admission.

You blinked, your expression softening with understanding. “You remember me from before, don’t you?”

The words hit him like a wave, crashing over him and pulling him under. Before.

“Yes,” he whispered, his hands shaking slightly as he reached out for you, his fingers brushing your wrist. “It’s all coming back now. We were... together before. Weren’t we?”

You smiled softly, your eyes bright with emotion. “Yes. We’ve been through this many times, Stephen. We’ve always found each other.”

Stephen’s heart stuttered in his chest. “How... how is that possible?”

You stepped closer, your hand resting gently on his chest. “We’re soulmates, Stephen. We always have been. I was always the one who healed you, and you... you taught me how to grow. It’s not a love that ends with each life; it simply changes, evolves.”

The weight of the truth settled around him, and he could feel the stirrings of his own magic responding to yours, the bond between you two undeniable. In this life, he had been so lost in his pursuit of power, in his quest to protect the world, that he’d almost missed the most important thing. You.

And now, with you standing before him, he realized what he had always needed, always longed for, even before he had understood the magic of it.

“You healed me before,” Stephen murmured, his voice thick with the depth of emotion he’d been holding back for so long. “You fixed me, even when I didn’t think I could be fixed.”

You smiled, your touch gentle as you cupped his face in your hands. “I heal because of you, Stephen. You taught me the importance of growth—of not just mending what’s broken but nurturing it so it can flourish.”

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “And now... now I understand. It wasn’t just about the magic. It was about us. All of this time... all of these lives. I was meant to love you, wasn’t I?”

You kissed him then, soft and slow, the magic between you building with every touch. There was no rush, no need for urgency, just the slow, steady rhythm of two souls reuniting after a long, long time apart.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling. “Yes. You were always meant to love me. And I was always meant to love you, Stephen Strange.”

As he held you, feeling the quiet power of your connection fill every corner of his being, Stephen knew this was just the beginning. In this lifetime, he would make sure to never let you go, to always nurture the love between you, to grow with you in every possible way.

After all, love was magic—and he had finally found his true spell.

[castielscaplan]

The Life You Dreamed Of

Summary: life couldn't have been any kinder to you with your favorite men in your life. [WC 882] [Ao3]

Warnings; domestic fluff, some playful arguing

A/N: @0ccvltism come be feral with me about this.

Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains in soft, golden stripes—lazy and warm, the kind that made everything feel slower, gentler.

Domestic. Safe. Very, very far from the lives you could have had.

The kettle clicked softly in the kitchen.

“Arthur,” Mick’s voice drifted from somewhere near the stove, calm but edged with patience, “if you adjust the temperature again, you’ll ruin it.”

“I’m improving it,” Arthur Ketch replied smoothly.

“You’re interfering.”

“I’m refining.”

From your spot on the couch, still tangled in a blanket and only half awake, you smiled into the fabric. Same argument. Every morning. Without fail.

“And yet,” Mick continued, ever composed, “you’ve never once made it correctly.”

A pause.

“…I resent that.”

“You should.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, pushing yourself upright just enough to peer into the kitchen.

Mick stood by the counter in a neatly pressed shirt — because of course he did — sleeves rolled just enough to be practical but still perfectly arranged. Meanwhile, Arthur leaned casually against the opposite side, looking like he belonged in a magazine spread rather than your slightly cluttered kitchen.

“Are you two fighting over tea again?” you called, voice still soft with sleep.

They both turned immediately. The shift was instant. Sharp edges—gone. Replaced with something warm. Something yours.

“Not fighting,” Mick said.

“Debating,” Ketch corrected.

You raised an eyebrow. “At 8 a.m.?”

“Standards do not adhere to time,” Mick replied.

“Exactly,” Ketch added.

You shook your head, smiling, and padded into the kitchen, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders like a cape.

Ketch’s eyes tracked you the entire way. Of course they did. “You look disheveled,” he observed.

“You look judgmental,” you shot back.

“I am.”

Mick, thankfully, intervened before Ketch could escalate that into something far more dramatic. “Sit,” he said gently, guiding you toward a chair with a hand at your back.

You didn’t miss the way his touch lingered. Or the way Ketch noticed. You definitely didn’t miss that.

“Oh, now that’s favoritism,” Ketch murmured.

“You’re welcome to sit as well,” Mick replied calmly.

“I’d rather stand.”

“Of course you would.”

You snorted softly, settling into the chair as Mick placed a cup of tea in front of you—perfectly timed, perfectly made. You took a sip. “…okay, yeah. That’s really good.”

Ketch made a quiet, offended sound. “Unbelievable.”

“You can make the next one,” you offered.

“I will,” he said.

“You said that yesterday.”

“And I meant it then, too.”

Mick allowed himself the smallest hint of a smile before turning back to you. “Did you sleep well?”

You nodded, leaning your cheek into your palm. “Better now that I’m awake.”

“Flattery will not improve your tea,” Ketch muttered.

“It might improve my chances of getting kissed, though.”

That got their attention. Immediately. Mick blinked, just once. Ketch tilted his head slightly, intrigued.

“…is that so?” Arthur asked.

You shrugged, deliberately casual. “Could be.”

Mick cleared his throat softly, stepping a little closer. “You shouldn’t negotiate affection.”

“I’m not negotiating,” you said. “I’m suggesting.”

Ketch moved then, circling behind your chair, hands coming to rest lightly on the back—close enough that you could feel his presence without him quite touching you. “Dangerous habit,” he murmured near your ear.

You smiled. “Worth it.”

Mick reached you first. He always did, in his own quiet way. His hand came up to gently tilt your chin, guiding your gaze toward him before he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

It was warm. Careful. Intentional. The kind of kiss that felt like it had nowhere else to be.

You melted into it for just a second before he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours.

“…good morning,” he murmured.

“Very good,” you whispered back.

“Well,” Ketch said from behind you, clearly unimpressed, “I refuse to be outdone.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in, one hand finally sliding from the chair to your shoulder, turning you just slightly toward him.

His kiss was different. A little sharper. A little more teasing. But it softened halfway through, lingering just a bit longer than expected—like even he didn’t want to pull away. “…there,” he murmured. “Now it’s balanced.”

You leaned back in your chair, looking between them with a sleepy, satisfied smile. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Mick shook his head faintly, fondness written all over his expression. “You encourage him.”

“He doesn’t need encouragement,” you said.

“Correct,” Ketch replied. “I thrive regardless.”

You reached out blindly, catching Mick’s hand and tugging him closer. He went easily. Arthur, not to be excluded, rested his hand more firmly on your shoulder, thumb brushing absent circles there.

And just like that, You were anchored again. One on each side. Warmth. Familiarity. Soft touches layered over quiet mornings.

“…you know,” you murmured, lifting your tea again, “for two people who argue this much, you’re surprisingly good at this whole domestic thing.”

Mick glanced at Ketch. Ketch glanced back. “…we adapt,” Mick said.

Ketch’s lips curved slightly. “For the right reasons.”

Your chest tightened in the best way. You leaned back, letting your eyes drift closed for a moment, surrounded by warmth, steady hands, and the kind of love that didn’t need to be loud to be overwhelming. “Yeah,” you murmured. “You really do.”

[castielscaplan]

Crimson Confession

Summary: Matt's always going to protect you... even if you change.

Warnings: Vampire!Au, angst

WC: 489

Request (Technically??): @ruckystarnes sent back in 2022 in DMs....Okay so for Matty... A renowned vampire hunter is turned during one of their hunts. Do they continue hunting vampires for revenge, or do they have a change of heart now that they can relate to the struggles? Like that sounds like something catholic Matty would do

You had always believed in the righteous path, in hunting evil, in wielding your faith and your fists to protect the innocent. Vampires were your sworn enemies—creatures that twisted human life for their own gain. You carried a silver cross in your pocket, your rosary tucked into your coat, your hands steady with purpose.

Until the night everything changed.

The hunt had gone wrong. One second you were cornering your target in a foggy alley, the scent of blood thick in your nostrils, the next—pain, fire, and an overwhelming thirst that coursed through your veins. By the time you awoke, pale, trembling, and undeniably changed, you realized you were no longer just the hunter. You were what you had spent your life hunting.

Days passed. Nights stretched into endless contemplation. You could feel every heartbeat in the city, every breath, every whisper of sin and fear. You could smell temptation as acutely as you could detect lies. And yet… you felt guilt, shame, and the remnants of your former morality gnawing at you.

Then there was Matt. Matt Murdock.

He noticed the change immediately. His sharp instincts, honed through years of law and vigilantism, didn’t miss the subtle shift in your presence—the way your eyes glinted at night, the way your strength and speed had sharpened. But rather than recoiling, he came closer, worried, protective, and somehow understanding.

“You’re… different,” he said softly one evening, sitting across from you in the dim light of your apartment. “I can feel it. But… you’re still you. I can see it.”

You looked away, ashamed. “I… I’m a monster now. I was meant to protect people. Instead…” Your voice cracked. “Instead I’m one of them.”

Matt reached across the table, hand brushing yours. “Maybe being one of them doesn’t mean losing yourself. Maybe it just… changes the way you fight.”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Fight? You don’t understand. I can feel everything now. The hunger, the craving… I could snap, kill… become what I once hated. How can I face the world now?”

“You’re not alone,” he whispered, eyes intense. “You never were. You were just… human. Now, maybe you can use that to do even more good. You can understand them, maybe stop them… not just kill them.”

And there it was. The crossroads. Part of you wanted vengeance—revenge against the vampires who had cursed you, who had taken your humanity. But another part—the part Matt seemed to recognize—knew the power of empathy, of understanding, of walking a mile in the shoes of those you once condemned.

The choice was yours. Continue the path of the hunter, letting blood and rage define you. Or carve a new way, one where justice wasn’t simply punishment, but protection, guidance… and perhaps redemption.

And Matt? He stayed beside you, unwavering, guiding your hands, steadying your heart, reminding you that even monsters could choose to be heroes.

[castielscaplan]

Not a Love Song

Summary: Not all love stories have a happy ending.

Warnings: angst, no happy ending, mentions of death, cancer

Word Count: 1k

Pairing: f!reader x Steve Rogers

Read on ao3! Tag List

Heart beats fast

Colours and promises

How to be brave?

How can I love when I’m afraid to fall?

------

“Hi,” a voice to your left greeted, startling you ever so slightly. “My name is Steve Rogers.” You squinted at the name before a memory clicked in your head. “We met at your cousin’s wedding back in April.”

“Oh, right!” you chuckled, holding a hand out as you balanced the box full of soap in the other before it toppled to the floor.

“My apologies,” Steve leaned down to help you pick up the soap that fell on the floor. “Your cousin said you’d be working today, I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Of course not,” you smiled at the sweet memory of talking to this man all night had appeared in your mind. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been thinking about something lately,” his lopsided smile pulled at your heart and you felt weak in the knees at the sight. “Can I get to know you a little better? One night with you wasn’t enough. I talked to your cousin, she approves of us.”

Chuckling, you shook your head. Of course your cousin would meddle in your love life. You’d only been complaining for the last few months that you were tired of being the single friend in all of your friend groups. “Of course, I’d love to see you again, Steve.”

------

But watching you stand alone

All of my doubt

Suddenly goes away somehow

One step closer

------

You’d spent nearly every night for the next two weeks going on dates with Steve, getting to know one another, becoming fast friends and soon enough, you had your first kiss with Steve. Soon after that, you invited him into your house for the night. ANd the next, the next, the day after. Quickly the man moved in with you.  

-----

I have died every day waiting for you

Darling, don’t be afraid

I have loved you for a thousand years

I’ll love you for a thousand more

----

Your relationship with STeve grew fast, along with your feelings for the man. Pretty soon, you knew you were ready to tell him you’d loved him for the first time. You were in the kitchen, watching him cooking breakfast for the pair of you, the small kitten you’d adopted a few weeks ago climbing all over your lap.

“I can feel you staring at me,” he spoke softly, peering over his shoulder to get a good look at you. “You looking at my ass muscles again?” You giggled as he flexed his cheeks in his sweatpants.

“How can I not?” you teased. “Your ass looked so edible.”

He chuckled before returning to the food. 

“Steve?” you asked after a moment. You don’t know why you were so nervous. He hummed in response. “I think I’m in love with you.”

You could see the smile on his face before he turned around to face you. “I’ve been waiting to hear you say those words; I’ve been in love with you for weeks. But I wanted you to be ready to say them as well before I mentioned it.”

“You’re a jerk,” you playfully threw a dishrag at him, causing the kitten to become startled  and run off your lap.

-----

Time stands still

Beauty in all she is

I will be brave

I will not let anything take away

What’s standing in front of me

Every breath

Every hour has come to this

-----

You’d spent five long years with Steven Grant Rogers. You’d started noticing he was withdrawing from you. He wasn’t eating as much as he used to. He claimed he wasn’t hungry all the time. He was losing hair in odd places. He was becoming all skin and bones when once upon a time, he was thick with broad muscle. 

You’d ask him time and time again if he was depressed, if he was going through a rough time. But he always shot you down with that bright smile of his. The smile that was burned into your memory now. The smile that was becoming less and less frequent.

Ten years had passed since you married the man of your dreams. Ten, beautiful years along with a son and daughter. You’d met many of his friends and people he considered his family.

-----

One step closer

I have died every day waiting for you

Darling, don’t be afraid

I have loved you for a thousand years

I’ll love you for a thousand more

And all along I believed I would find you

Time has brought your heart to me

I have loved you for a thousand years

I’ll love you for a thousand more

One step closer

One step closer

-----

All of those people he’d introduced you to over the years, all of your friends and family stuck by you. Even after the long talk he’d held with you one starry Tuesday night. He’d taken you on a walk down the beach barefoot. He knew it was your favorite to be. He knew you loved feeling the sand between your toes and the scent of salty air.

----

I have died every day waiting for you

Darling, don’t be afraid

I have loved you for a thousand years

I’ll love you for a thousand more

----

The beach is where he confessed that he’d been suffering with cancer– lung cancer. He thought he was getting better, the test results for his doctors said so. But the doctors lied, or maybe they had misread a diagnosis.  Steve was still sickly. You had been woken up to a horrible sound coming from the bathroom down the hall; he’d been puking again.

----

And all along I believed I would find you

Time has brought your heart to me

I have loved you for a thousand years

I’ll love you for a thousand more

----

Soon after the puking started up again, you knew his time was up. You knew he was at the end of his days. The chemo wasn’t helping him. The radiation was making him even more sickly. But the cancer had spread too far too fast for the doctors to take control. He died in your arms that night, 1:06am. 

Your whole body shook as you walked into the funeral home to see your beloved man laying atop white cushions in the casket. The tears came soon after. You hardly registered anyone else, even after you’d been pulled away from the casket to be seated.

--

[castielscaplan]

High Stakes

Summary: maybe the scary mafia king wasn’t all that bad

Word Count: 499

Warnings: slight suggestive themes, mobster Au

Pairing: Mobster! Bucky x Female! Reader

Read on ao3! Tag List

Whistling to yourself, you walked around the casino, stopping every so often to allow a man or woman to grab a beer bottle from the tray you carried on your hand. You were tired and your feet were killing you from walking all night around the club. But you had a job to do. Your boss, Clint, would murder you if you caused any displeasure to the customers surrounding his establishment.

You were warned earlier in the night that the mafia king, James Barnes would make his appearance and you would risk the threat of being fired from this job had you performed anything less than spectacular service once the blue eyed man had arrived.

You’d only seen pictures of the man splashed across the  front pages of the newspaper. But you were well aware the man was deadly and handsome- a terrifying combination. Any one who brought him even the slightest bit of displeasure would end with a bullet between their eyes. 

“Hey, you!” A finger snap nearby caused you to mess up your whistling and you blinked over at the person who had gained your attention.

“Mr. Barnes!” you greeted, bowing your head slightly as he walked over to you. 

“Thanks for holding these for me.” He grinned and took the remaining glasses off your tray and placed them on the poker table behind him. “Myself and my men are parched.”

“Glad I could hydrate you, Mr. Barnes.” You smiled politely, though your palms were becoming sweaty the longer he looked at you. He leaned over and put the remainder of his cigarette out in the ashtray and grinned at you. “Why don’t you come over and watch the game, sweetheart?”

“I have to work, sir. Mr. Barton wouldn’t like it very much if I abandoned my catering.”

“Nonsense!” Barnes grinned “Come,come.” he ushered you over to him, placing you between his legs as he picked his cards back up. You could feel his breath tickling your neck and unconsciously moved closer to him. You felt him chuckle behind you as he pressed a light kiss to your shoulder blade, startling you.

“Relax.” he ordered lightly. “If I win, I’ll give you the best pleasure you’ve ever experienced.”

“What if I don’t want that?” you mumbled as he threw a few poker chips in the middle of the table.

“You would have protested when I put you where you stand right now.” He chuckled as he pressed his lips behind your ear.

Minutes later, Barnes won the money in the middle of the table and you let out a breath you had no idea you were holding. You found that you had become excited to see the man win, the longer the game went on, due to the random pecks at your neck and shoulder blade he would give you when it wasn’t his turn at the table.

“Let’s go, there’s a room reserved for me upstairs.”

[saiyanprincessswanie]

I want to be his lucky charm ☺️😏 whisk me away Barnes 😋🥵

[caplanbuckybarnes]

🥵🥵

[castielscaplan]

Keep Comin' Back

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.

[castielscaplan]

Keep Comin' Back

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.

[castielscaplan]

25.3K Prompts <3

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updated May 3 2026. I'm separating the dialogue prompts into their respective sections. Went through Anger & Angst Lists the last few days & separated them into smaller lists. Will be working on the horror/Apocalyptic list next!

PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!

No credit is necessary, just have fun!

[castielscaplan]

The Whole Damn Thing

Summary: on the road gifts....

Warnings: wincest, roadhead, smut

WC: 448

Read on ao3

The Impala rumbled steadily down the deserted back road, moonlight glinting off her glossy hood. Dean’s hand gripped the steering wheel — the other was knotted tightly in Sam’s hair, keeping his baby brother’s mouth right where it belonged.

“C’mon, all the way,” Dean growled, low and thick with arousal. “You can take it. You have taken it.”

Sam whimpered around the stretch of Dean’s cock, throat clenching as he tried to breathe through his nose. His eyes were glossy, watering at the corners, tears slipping silently down his cheeks. Slobber pooled at the corners of his lips, trailing down his chin and soaking into the denim bunched around Dean’s thighs. His nose bumped Dean’s belly every time Dean tugged his head forward, forcing him all the way down to the base.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean hissed, his eyes fluttering shut for a second too long. “You’re such a fuckin’ mess.”

Sam moaned, the sound thick and desperate, sending vibrations down Dean’s shaft. His fingers curled into Dean’s thigh like he needed something to hold on to — but Dean wasn’t in the mood for mercy. Not tonight.

“You gonna swallow like a good boy?” Dean’s voice was rough with affection and control. “Or you want me to paint your face and send you into the gas station like that?”

Sam choked slightly at the image — or maybe it was the warning twitch of Dean’s cock on his tongue — but when Dean came, Sam didn’t hesitate. He sucked greedily, throat working as Dean spilled down his throat, groaning brokenly with his hips locked in place.

Once Dean had finally let go of his hair, Sam collapsed against his thigh, breathless and dazed. He didn’t even flinch when Dean’s large hand palmed between his legs, cupping the obscene bulge in his jeans.

“Aww, look at you,” Dean crooned mockingly, fingers pressing down just enough to make Sam jerk in place. “All worked up from suckin’ your brother’s cock?”

Sam moaned — high, humiliated, turned-on beyond belief — and Dean grinned, cruel and slow.

“You wanna come, Sammy?” he asked, voice syrupy-sweet as his hand began to move, rubbing circles through the denim. “Then hump it. C’mon. Rub that pathetic little cock off on my hand like a fuckin’ mutt.”

Sam made a pitiful noise, but obeyed. Grinding awkwardly against Dean’s palm, breath shuddering as he worked himself up like a dog in heat. Dean didn’t even have to look down. He could feel the desperation pouring off him — the tension, the guilt, the need.

“That’s it,” Dean muttered, shifting gears with one hand as he pressed harder with the other. “Make a mess for me.”

And Sam did — hips jerking once, twice — coming in his jeans with a strangled sob, his face buried in Dean’s thigh and the smell of his brother’s come still thick on his tongue.

Dean smirked and brought his hand back to the wheel, casually licking his fingers.

“Fucking filthy.”

[castielscaplan]

Only Yours, Baby

Summary: He's only ever soft with you.

WC: 643

Warnings: soft billy, fluff

ao3 tag list

Billy never let anyone call him “baby.” Not his friends, not his family, not even you — not until one afternoon when the world outside your little apartment seemed far away, and he let himself fold into something softer.

He was lying on his stomach on the bed, one arm tucked under his head, the other dangling lazily over the side. His hair was mussed from sleep, and there was a faint crease between his brows, like he’d been carrying something heavy all morning. You had no idea what it was, but you didn’t ask.

You crawled onto the bed beside him, pressing close enough to feel the heat radiating off his back. Fingers gliding over the taut muscles, you traced slow, lazy circles, careful not to startle him.

“Baby,” you whispered, soft, intimate, a word he had never let anyone else touch him with.

Immediately, his body stilled. His shoulder muscles, normally rigid as steel, relaxed under your hand. You felt the shift first in the slight sag of his spine, then in the slow, steady exhale that seemed to let go of the world outside.

He didn’t answer, not right away. But you could hear the faint hitch in his breathing, the tremor of his fingers brushing against the mattress.

“You know I don’t… I don’t let anyone,” he finally murmured, voice low and rough, almost afraid he’d break the spell by saying it out loud. “Just… you.”

You smiled against the curve of his neck and pressed a gentle kiss there. “I know,” you whispered. “I’ve always known.”

He shifted slightly, letting you adjust closer, the weight of him settling against your side. His hand found yours on the mattress, fingers curling around yours with a possessiveness that didn’t need words. And there it was — Billy, stripped of all his anger, all his bravado, all the walls he’d built so carefully around himself, letting you see him completely.

For a while, you didn’t speak. The quiet hum of the city outside your window filled the space, mingling with the soft rhythm of his breathing. You drew patterns on his back, letting him relax into you, letting him be himself without judgment, without expectation.

Eventually, he shifted again, rolling just enough to peek at you over the curve of the pillow. His blue eyes were softer than usual, almost vulnerable, and for the first time, you saw a boy you’d never met beneath the tough exterior.

“You know,” he murmured, voice rough but earnest, “I… I like this. Being like this. With you.”

Your chest warmed, and you pressed your forehead to his temple. “I like it too. You don’t have to be anything else with me.”

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Damn you. You make it too easy.”

But he didn’t pull away. Not when you whispered words over him, not when you kissed his temple, not when your fingers traced lazy circles over his shoulders and down his arms. And you didn’t mind that he scowled sometimes, that he muttered under his breath or tried to hide the softness you drew out of him. Because you knew the truth: every scowl, every mutter, every attempt to act unbothered was just another layer peeling away, revealing Billy in his rawest, most real form.

--

Hours passed like that — quiet, tender, unhurried. The sun shifted across the room, painting stripes of light across the bed. Billy drifted close to sleep, fingers still entwined with yours, and you kissed his temple once more before curling beside him.

No walls. No fights. No sharp words. Just Billy, raw and real, letting himself be yours in the only way he knew how.

And for the first time, you realized something simple and profound: Billy Hargrove — impossible, infuriating, reckless Billy — belonged entirely to you, in this quiet, unguarded space where only love existed.

[castielscaplan]

Library Violence

Summary: you get kidnapped by some goons and Loki comes to your rescue [WC 1k] [ao3]

Warnings: mafia au, angst, fluff if you tilt your head to the left and squint hard

Request: @samanddeansannoyingsis Mafia Loki who's sweet wife has no idea he's in the mafia. Shes just a sweet little librarian at the public library and then gets kidnapped one day and they ask about her husband.

The library always smelled like paper and quiet. It clung to you the way your husband’s sweaters did when you stole them from his side of the closet. It was safe here. Predictable. Rows of stories that always ended the same way no matter how many times you opened them.

That’s why you didn’t understand.

Didn’t understand why your wrists were tied to a chair. Didn’t understand why the room smelled like metal and something sharp and wrong. Didn’t understand why the men in front of you kept asking about Loki.

Your Loki. Your husband who kissed your forehead every morning, who brought you tea when your migraines got bad, who listened to you ramble about books like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“C’mon,” one of them sneered, crouching in front of you. “You really expect us to believe you don’t know what he does?”

Your throat felt tight, frantically looking around the room. You had no idea where he had taken you. Or who this man was. Or what he was talking about. “He—he works in business.”

The room went quiet for a second.

Then laughter. Harsh. Mocking. “Business,” another echoed. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

You shook your head, panic starting to claw its way up your chest. “I don’t understand what you want from me. I told you—I don’t know anything.”

The first man sighed like you were inconveniencing him. “Your husband runs half this city. Weapons, money, people. Nothing moves without his say-so. And you're telling us you have no idea how diabolical he is?”

Your heart stuttered. “No,” you whispered, because that didn’t make sense. It couldn’t. “No, you’re wrong. Loki wouldn’t—he’s—he’s—”

Kind. Gentle. Careful with you like you were something fragile.

The man grabbed your chin suddenly, forcing you to look at him. “He’s a liar. And you’re either stupid… or you’re lying for him.”

Tears blurred your vision. “I’m not lying…” Your voice cracked, small and helpless in the cold room. “I swear, I don’t know anything.”

There was a beat.

Then a sound echoing in the ditance. A thud. Another. Raised voices outside. Shouting. Something breaking.

The men froze. You felt it before you understood it—the shift in the air. Like a storm rolling in. Heavy. Inevitable.

One of them cursed under his breath. “Shit—”

The door burst open. And everything stopped. Because Loki stood there. Not your Loki. Not the man who brushed your hair out of your face while you read in bed. This Loki was dressed in black, coat immaculate, eyes cold and sharp like cut glass. There was blood on his knuckles—fresh blood—and men behind him who looked just as dangerous.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Loki’s gaze found you. And everything—everything—in his expression shattered. “Darling.” His voice dropped, softer than you’d ever heard it, like the word itself might break you further.

Your breath hitched. “Loki…?”

He crossed the room in seconds. The men didn’t even try to stop him. Didn’t dare. He dropped to his knees in front of you, hands suddenly so careful as they hovered over your face, your shoulders, like he was afraid to touch you too roughly. “Are you hurt?” he murmured, frantic now. “Did they—did they touch you—?”

“I…” Your voice trembled. “They said—”

You looked at him—really looked. At the blood. At the men behind him. At the way everyone else in the room refused to meet his eyes. “…they said you’re… in the mafia.”

Silence. It stretched. Heavy.

Loki closed his eyes briefly, like he’d been dreading this exact moment for a very long time. When he opened them again, the softness was still there—but underneath it was something darker. Something powerful. Something real. “Yes,” he said quietly.

The word felt like it split the world in two.

You flinched. Not away from him—never that—but from the truth itself. “…you lied to me.” It wasn’t angry. That made it worse.

Loki’s face crumpled just slightly, guilt flickering through all that control. “I protected you.”

“By lying?”

“By keeping you safe,” he corrected, sharper now—but the edge vanished the second your eyes filled again. “By making sure you never had to see this part of me.”

Your lips trembled. “But it’s still you.”

That hit him. You could see it. He swallowed, something raw breaking through his composure. “Yes.”

Your gaze dropped to his hands—the same hands that held yours so gently—now stained with blood. “…did you hurt them?” you whispered.

Behind him, one of the men shifted nervously.

Loki didn’t look away from you. “Yes.”

The honesty was terrifying.

And yet still, he reached for you slowly, like approaching a frightened animal. “But never you. Never anything that belongs to you. Never anything that breathes near you.” His voice dropped, something dark curling through it now. “They took you.” The room seemed to shrink around those words. “And for that,” Loki continued softly, “they don’t get to keep breathing.”

Your heart pounded. You should’ve been scared. You were scared. But not of him. Never of him. Your voice came out small. “…you still love me?”

Something almost offended flashed across his face. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours despite the blood, despite everything. “You are the only thing in this wretched world I have ever loved,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“And I would burn every empire I’ve built to ash before I let harm come to you again.”

Your eyes closed, tears slipping free. “…okay.”

It was quiet. Fragile. But it was enough. Loki exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the moment you were taken. Carefully, gently, he untied your wrists—his fingers trembling just slightly as he checked for marks. “I’m taking you home,” he murmured.

Home.

The word felt different now.

He stood, then hesitated… before shrugging off his coat and draping it around your shoulders, shielding you from the room, from the men, from himself. From what he was.

But as he helped you up, your hand clutched his sleeve.

He paused. “…you’re still my Loki,” you said softly.

And for the first time since he walked in, the monster disappeared. Just for you.

[castielscaplan]

Keep Comin' Back

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.

[castielscaplan]

Borderline

Summary: Soldat belongs to Steve. And Soldat knows better than to ever deny that.

Warnings: HYDRA!Steve Rogers, angst, possessiveness

WC: 883

ao3 // tag list

The chamber was cold, sterile, metallic. Dim lights cast long shadows across the walls, highlighting the edges of machinery, the faint scent of oil and antiseptic lingering in the air. Perfect conditions for control. Perfect conditions for dominance. Perfect conditions for Steve.

“Stand straight,” Steve commanded, his voice low, clipped, and edged with authority. He didn’t need to touch him yet; his presence alone was enough to make Soldat stiffen, every muscle coiling under practiced obedience.

Soldat obeyed. Not because he wanted to, not because he agreed, but because he had learned over years that obedience was safer. That hesitation meant punishment. That Steve—his commanding officer—was always watching, always calculating, always waiting for Soldat to fuck up.

“You’re mine,” Steve murmured, stepping closer, circling him with the measured precision of a predator. “Not Barnes. Not Bucky or even James. Soldat. You have no other name here. You have no other purpose. You are mine.”

Soldat’s jaw clenched, the name feeling like chains, stripping him of every fragment of identity he had left. He tried to resist with his eyes, with the tension in his shoulders—but the truth was inescapable. The Winter Soldier did not resist Steve. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Shouldn't.

“I’ve raised you. I’ve molded you. Every ounce of your danger, every skill, every strike—you belong to me,” Steve continued, brushing his hand lightly across Soldat’s jaw, tilting his head up to force his gaze. “And you will remember it, every single time. You follow me. You obey me. Or you die.”

“Yes, sir,” Soldat muttered, his voice low, almost guttural. Habit. Survival. Submission.

Steve’s lips twitched into the smallest, almost imperceptible smirk. He liked the edge, the fear, the tension—but he also liked the surrender. The Winter Soldier was a weapon, lethal and untamed to the world, but under Steve, under his hands, under his control… Soldat was his. And only his.

“You move only when I command. You strike only when I permit. You kneel when I tell you. Do you understand me, Soldat?”

“Yes, sir,” came the obedient reply, but the rasp in Soldat’s voice betrayed the suppressed fire beneath.

Steve felt it. He thrived on it. The mix of fear, restraint, and underlying hunger—the Winter Soldier’s raw energy made every touch, every command intoxicating.

“Good,” Steve whispered, stepping even closer until their shoulders brushed. “Because this control… this dominance… it’s not just for the missions. It’s for us. You will obey, and you will desire it. You will crave the precision I impose, the guidance, the ownership. HYDRA trained you, Soldat. I perfected you and all of your loyalty belongs to me.”

Soldat shivered under the words, a tremor that had nothing to do with the cold. Steve’s hand slipped to his shoulder, tracing deliberately along the muscle before resting firmly, claiming him. “Do you feel that? That tension? That heat? That is yours to submit. That is yours to obey.”

The first mission after the chamber was immediate. Steve directed him with meticulous precision, Soldat’s every step, strike, and kill under his direct command. He moved like a ghost of himself, lethal and sharp—but every action was tethered, owned, claimed.

During a quiet moment in the operation, Steve pressed Soldat against a wall, his hands gripping the soldier’s shoulders, tilting his head. “Do you understand why you obey me?” Steve’s voice was low, intimate, dangerous. “Because I claim you. Because I know what you can do. Because I want you to want it. Do you understand?”

“Yes… sir,” Soldat whispered, breath hitching. Every fiber of him screamed to resist, yet the pleasure in submission, the dark intimacy of Steve’s possessiveness, was undeniable.

Later, in the privacy of the chamber, punishments and guidance engaged. Every mistake—a misstep, hesitation, a faltering blow—was corrected with hands, voice, and presence. And every correction, every assertion of Steve’s dominance, sent shockwaves through Soldat, leaving him raw, vulnerable, and yet inexplicably craving it.

“You think you can resist me?” Steve asked one evening after a mission, his hands firm on Soldat’s jaw, holding him steady. “You think that you can stand apart from me? No. Every strike, every kill, every breath you take—you do it because I demand it. Because I own you. And you will never forget it.”

Soldat swallowed, trembling with the combination of fear, exhaustion, and something darker, something he didn’t have words for. Obedience had never felt like this. Intimate. Possessive. Necessary.

Steve’s lips brushed against his ear, a whisper of dominance that made Soldat’s knees weaken. “You belong to me. HYDRA made you strong, but I made you mine. And every time you step out into the world… every time you strike, you do it for me. You do it because I command. You do it because I claim you.”

And Soldat, fierce, dangerous, deadly, bowed—not in defeat, but in the knowledge that under Steve Rogers, HYDRA’s soldier and his Winter Soldier, he was fully, irrevocably tamed. And it was intoxicating.

Because this was not just control. This was obsession. Possession. A dark intimacy that neither of them could resist.

Steve claimed him. Soldat obeyed. And in every mission, every punishment, every heated command, every whispered assertion of dominance, the bond between them—twisted, possessive, HYDRA-perfect—grew stronger. Always.

[castielscaplan]

Down For You

Summary: you're a drug mule for the cartel and when something goes wrong one night, Bucky comes to your rescue.

Warnings: drug mule reader, angst, a scuffle

WC: 580

ao3 // tag list

The alley smelled of rain, gasoline, desperation, and possibly a dead body decaying somewhere. Neon lights flickered above, casting your reflection in puddles like broken shards of glass. You gripped the duffel bag tighter, the weight of both cash and product digging into your hands, and cursed under your breath.

You’d always thought you could handle yourself. Street smarts, fire in your gut, and a reputation that made people hesitate before crossing you. But tonight… tonight had gone wrong.

A rival crew had cornered you behind the warehouse. Guns drawn, knives glinting, shadows stretching long across your boots. You were outnumbered, trapped, and for the first time in your life, your instincts screamed—don’t die tonight.

“Looks like the little dealer finally got herself in over her head,” one of them sneered, stepping closer.

And then, in the silence of that rainy street, the world shifted.

Bucky.

He moved like a ghost from the shadows, silent, lethal, deliberate. Leather jacket, cold eyes, and a presence that made the air feel sharp. One motion, and the biggest thug was off his feet, hitting the pavement with a grunt that sounded like surrender.

“Move,” Bucky growled, voice low, carrying that warning that made your spine straighten instantly. The other men froze. And then, as if the ground itself feared him, Bucky moved through them. Fast, precise, brutal. Within moments, your attackers were groaning on the wet pavement, defeated, beaten, humiliated.

You didn’t think. You just ran. Straight into his arms, letting him catch you, hold you. His hands gripped your waist, strong and unyielding, and for the first time tonight, you felt safe.

“You shouldn’t have been out here alone,” he said, eyes scanning the shadows like he could see threats in the dark itself.

“I—” you tried to protest, but your voice cracked. “I can handle myself…”

Bucky’s hand lifted, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. “Not tonight,” he said simply. His gaze softened just slightly, just enough to let you see that beneath the lethal exterior, he cared. “You’re lucky I was in the area.”

You swallowed, heart still hammering. “Bucky… thank you.”

He didn’t say anything else, just pressed a gentle, possessive hand against your back, guiding you away from the alley and toward safety. The rain washed over both of you, but it didn’t matter. You felt untouchable, shielded by him, by the quiet menace that surrounded him like a storm about to break.

Once you were a safe distance from the alley, Bucky finally spoke. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, voice low, almost warning. “Being in this business, moving drugs for the mob… it’s only a matter of time before someone else tries to get to you.”

“I can handle it,” you said, stubborn even under his glare.

Bucky’s hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing against your wet skin. “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “But I won’t let you do it alone. If anyone touches you, I’ll make them regret it. Understand?”

“Yes,” you breathed. And somehow, with him by your side, the danger felt bearable.

Bucky’s grip tightened slightly, a silent promise. “Good. Because I don’t just protect anyone. You? You’re mine.”

And in the rain, in the chaos of your life, you realized he meant it. That no matter the rival mobs, no matter the bullets and betrayal waiting in the shadows, Bucky had claimed you. And you would follow him anywhere—even into hell itself.

[castielscaplan]

Sweetest Coffee Bean

Summary: Henry was always a brood unless he was with you. You were always the sunshine in his darkest hour.

Warnings: coffee shop au, fluff, broody henry, sunshine reader

WC: 615

Request: Anonymous asked: Oh man cap this is gonna be a weird one but what about a coffee shop au with Henry creel and f!reader? Maybe with the sunshine and black cloud trope with reader being the sunshine? Thank you!!

ao3 // tag list

The morning sunlight slanted through the large windows of Hawkins Grind Coffee Shop, painting golden rectangles across the wooden floor. You were behind the counter, humming softly to the low jazz playing from the speakers, your hands moving with the ease of someone who loved the smell of coffee as much as the ritual of making it. There was something magnetic about your presence—you had that rare ability to make anyone feel seen, even in the midst of their grayest thoughts.

Henry sat in his usual corner booth, a book open in front of him, but his dark eyes weren’t on the pages. He never really looked at the words. His gaze kept drifting to you—the way your laughter tinkled like wind chimes when you accidentally knocked over a cup, the soft curls of hair that fell across your forehead, the tilt of your head when you focused on steaming milk. He came here every morning, though he rarely spoke. People might have called him brooding, distant, or unapproachable, and honestly… he kind of liked it that way.

But with you, the world shifted.

“Good morning, Henry,” you said brightly, placing a freshly brewed cup of cappuccino in front of him. Your smile was effortless, reaching your eyes and somehow lighting up the room. “The usual?”

He didn’t answer right away, not verbally. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, letting a corner of a rare, half-smile appear. “Yes,” he said finally, voice low, calm. “You didn’t have to come by my table.”

“I know,” you replied cheerfully, leaning slightly on the counter. “But I like seeing you awake before the world drags you under. It suits me.”

Henry’s eyes flickered—not with warmth, exactly, but with something like recognition. You didn’t seem intimidated by him, didn’t shy away from the black cloud he carried like armor. You approached him every day with a steady kindness, a sunshine that refused to be dimmed. It unnerved him.

“You make it sound… like you think I need saving,” he said, voice quieter now, almost a challenge.

“I don’t think you need saving,” you said, eyes twinkling. “I just… like seeing the person behind the storm.”

He looked down at the cup, tracing the rim with a finger. The steam curled up between you, and for a brief moment, the bustling noise of the coffee shop faded into a private silence. He hated admitting it, but… he liked your presence more than he wanted to. Liked it a lot.

“You’re… bright,” he said, as if tasting the word, weighing it. “Too bright.”

“Maybe,” you teased, “but you need it. Even clouds like yours need a little sunlight sometimes.”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk forming. “You’re very bold, you know that?”

“Bold or… fearless,” you countered. “Depends on how you see it.”

Henry’s gaze lingered on you longer than it probably should have. You had this infuriating effect of being calm and gentle while simultaneously piercing every wall he’d built. Every day he came in with the intent to stay in the shadows, to hide behind his books and quiet demeanor… and every day, you brought him out into the light without even trying.

“You should close that smile before someone catches it,” he muttered, but it wasn’t really a warning.

You laughed softly, the sound warm and unrestrained. “You’re terrible at hiding the fact that you like it when I’m here.”

For a heartbeat, Henry didn’t say anything, just let the corner of his mouth lift in that secretive way he reserved only for moments like this. And for once, he didn’t feel the need to run from the sunlight you offered.