I Think He Knows

I Think He Knows

Summary: You’re suspicious that Loki can read your mind so you decide to test that theory.

Pairing: Loki x reader

Word Count: 2,357

A/N: So this is v v loosely based on I Think He Knows by Taylor Swift, but not really? I just wanted to give the credit that is due before anyone says i didnt. Hope yall like it!

Main Masterlist

He definitely knew.

You were hyper aware of the fact that his stare was on you, his eyes on the back of your head, making your cheeks heat up. You pointedly continued doing what you were doing, though. You nodded along to whatever Thor was saying (you had stopped listening about two minutes ago). Fandral laughed loudly then, followed by Volstagg and Sif, and you forced yourself to chuckle as well, praying you looked believable. You didn’t feel bad about your lack of concentration towards the story at hand. It wasn’t your fault that Loki was burning holes in your head. That every time he did that, it made your heartbeat skip like it was running a marathon. 

He just had that effect on you. And he definitely knew.

Keep reading

Mac and Cheese

Summary: Bucky takes the last box of frozen mac and cheese, takes your phone, and makes you fall in love with him. The audacity of that man.

Prompt: “This has been a very bad week and you just grabbed the last box of my favorite comfort food at the supermarket” 

Pairing: bucky x reader

a/n: i wrote this and was fully done formatting it and everything, like, 6 months ago. i didn’t post it because it’s approx. 82% nonsense but i figured why not post it now when it’s still 82% nonsense but im struggling to finish everything else. so taal, long time vegan, writes a story about mac and cheese and, listen, idk what this fic is either. can i write a fic without adding sam to it? no.

Mac and cheese. That’s all you want. Disgusting, frozen, usually-quite-mushy-if-not-microwaved-correctly mac and fucking cheese. 

The kind with the layer of cheese on top. The kind with that real elbow pasta, not rotini or penne or seashell pasta— real macaroni. The kind you try to only eat one serving size of before you eat everything in the package. The kind you always gravitate to when your eyes are stained red, swollen, and too proud to be anything other than dry.

You take the subway. You switch lines. You endure the smell of the F train during rush hour when you aren’t sure where your thigh ends and the thigh of the woman sitting beside you begins. All for that one Trader Joe’s, out of many, in Brooklyn the hipsters abandon before six because the coffee shop next door closes at five.

Your feet ache in your boots and you’re pretty sure a rock has somehow lodged itself between your toes, it’s starting to rain and you have no umbrella, you don’t think your throat has ever felt so parched. 

But you tuck your phone into your back pocket and march into that store with the hideous overhead lighting that makes your skin look like it hasn’t seen a bottle of toner in days like you’re Hades, the box of mac and cheese is Persephone, and Trader Joe’s is Mount Olympus.

Keep reading

tapestry 👑 III

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

This Chapter: The reader speaks up.

Note: Here’s part 3. I’m still going while I can. Fair warning that I work every day given the holiday season and so I’ll do my best to keep up but so far I’m having fun and you all are too. I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply! Love ya!

It was a week before your father returned. A gruelling week.

You weren’t surprised to hear of his arrival from another. Nor disappointed that he didn’t call for you immediately. That was your father’s way. He doted on Alice and shunned you. She brought him esteem with her marriage to a duke and you brought him disgrace with your failure to garner even a betrothal. The convent lurked on your horizon.

Keep reading

The Bachelor: Vietnam - Contestant confesses to another contestant

The Scoop  —  One Shot

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes laments the fact that every single person he cares about is a dumbass when it comes to their own personal safety. AKA: Bucky Barnes hates every single journalist, newscaster or reporter he’s ever met until you.

Warnings: language, some light smut, canon typical violence. This reader is explicitly a black woman, but I hope other than the brief descriptions of her (and her hair), everyone can enjoy this :)

Words: 13,000

A/N: I’m returning from my complete hiatus to post this because I have zero self-control. But I’ll be gone again for a while— sorry! I hope you enjoy!

Bucky Barnes hates reporters.

Newscasters, journalists, columnists, think piece-writers.

He’s not a fan.

Mostly because they don’t tend to be fans of him, spewing new nonsense every other week about him, he can hardly go to a dollar store without someone making some political statement about it.

Sam told him to ignore it, but it was kind of hard to do that when he was constantly on edge about if a taxi driver was going to throw him out or profusely thank him for his service and invite him to dinner with his whole family. Really, that had happened. Sam has taken pictures, but the haleem and dumpukht had been so good, Bucky had hardly cared.

All of this is to say when he realises the gorgeous brunette in the coffee shop at the bottom of Avengers Tower is a journalist, he bolts before you can even open your pretty lips.

“Hey! Wait! Sergeant—” You’re cut off for a moment as the shop door closes behind him, but he hears the telltale clicking of your shoes on the marble lobby floor moments later as you give chase.

“Sergeant Barnes! Please!” Bucky, unfortunately, has to wait for the elevator to arrive, so at least for another minute, he’s forced to be somewhat near you.

He presses the button at least six times.

“What?” He refrains from growling, and barely passes another glance to you as you catch up.

“I’m a journalist, from—”

“—The New York Times, I know, you have a press badge.” He nods to the laminated employee card on your hip and you look down at it for a moment, before tugging your sweater in vain to cover it up.

Keep reading

I'd very much like to punch a feminist.

I’d never, ever hurt a lady but I’d be happy to punch a feminist. It’d bring me great joy.