Pairing: Bucky x Reader &Steve x Reader Characters: Female Reader, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Sharon Carter, Phil Coulson Summary: Political AU/ Lawyer AU - Steve Rogers is the President of the United States - inspired by Shonda Rhimes’ Scandal Rating: Mature Word Count: 3,678 Warnings: Language, Mentions of cheating
“We just had our asses served.” An exasperated voice strikes through the air, coming to a lengthy, irritated sight. “They were served to us on a damn silver platter.” The owner of the agitated voice purses her lips and shakes her blonde head of hair is disapproval. “Ohio, Steve. Fucking Ohio. You lost goddamn Ohio. You’re practically giving away your presidency to Rhodes.”
“No, Steve.” Her words cut through the air. “There’s not a single thing in my life that I haven’t given up for you. I’ve jeopardized my career for you. I’ve had a child for you. I’ve done anything and everything for you just so you could be the goddamn president! If you told me when I first met you twelve years ago that this is where our lives would be, I would’ve backed out when I still had the chance.”
“Sharon, I didn’t ask for any for-”
“And what do I get? After everything I’ve done, what do I get? Hatred and resentment. My own husband’s resentment towards me.”
“Don’t act like you don’t want this just as much as I do.”
“At least I’m wanting to go into the house with the ideals of change and freedom for this country, you’re just wanting to-’
“Steve,” The tired voice of Phil Coulson, who had been standing off to the side of the small office since this fight had started nearly twenty minutes ago, interrupts. “Sharon, we have to be level headed here. This is just the beginning. We have to stay calm.”
“I’m past calm, Phil. Way past calm.” Sharon’s thin brows knit in a frown as her eyes flash Steve an unrelenting stare of distrust. “I’m starting to think this is a dead marriage. What are we even doing?” With that, the blonde woman strides across the small office, smoothing down the blue chiffon of her dress and the flyways of her hair, attempting to appear as if she hadn’t been fighting with her husband for the past twenty minutes.
AN: Trigger Warning! This WILL show a…rather graphic description of Rhys having sex with Amarantha. And though she doesn’t necessarily tie him up or hold a gun to his head, he is having sex essentially against his will, which is rape. So please be advised and stay safe my darling readers <3
On that note, in case anyone was wondering why I’m writing a fanfiction that deals with such dark subject matter…One of the things that plagued me about Rhys after I read ACOMAF was just how abusive his relationship with Amarantha was. And how toxic Feyre’s relationship with Tamlin ended up being (I don’t necessarily think it started out that way). We read these books and we think ‘Well, of course. If I saw that, I’d KNOW I was being abused!’ But that got me thinking…would we? Especially with Tamlin…It’s far more subtle and he certainly isn’t doing it on purpose. He truly does everything out of love. But thinking more and more about it made me feel even more strongly about both of these characters (if that’s even POSSIBLE omg Feysand 5eva) and…well, I really wanted to explore those parts.
That being said. If any of you HAS been abused, and I am portraying it incorrectly or devaluing what you and so many others have gone through…please, please do not hesitate to tell me. You can send an anon with a parenthetical that says ‘Please don’t post!’ and I will not say anything at all. And know that you are all loved <3
In the end, Feyre couldn’t bring herself to tell Tamlin about Rhysand. Not when he’d been in such an unusually good mood when she returned home from the café. She stared at the ceiling of their bedroom, watching the light of the late morning dance through the windows. She stretched, her muscles pleasantly sore from the previous night. A twinge of electricity shot through to her toes as she remembered why her muscles were sore, as she remembered why there were a couple of little bruises on her hips and her stomach, and trailing up her sternum…
She grinned and pushed herself up on her elbows, the thick blankets falling from her shoulders as she did so. Tamlin hated sleeping in, so it wasn’t a surprise to her when she woke up and the bed was empty…but for him to let her sleep in until ten o’clock without waking her up with his lips on her breast and his fingers gently nudging her legs open…
She got up from the bed and picked his oversized thermal shirt up off the floor where she’d thrown it the previous night, pulling it on over her head and savoring the way the forest green cotton felt on her skin, smiling as the hem fell to the tops of her thighs. She hugged herself and crept toward the door, and that’s when she heard voices.
“Your time is almost up, Tamlin,” a voice she recognized almost immediately growled.
Hunk thinks about kissing Keith a lot, and judging by the amount that Keith mentions it, he thinks about it a lot too.
Shiro thinks they’re sweet- but Hunk thinks he’s just excited that Keith is actually interested in talking to someone that isn’t Shiro, and maybe a little bit that that person is Hunk. Lance thinks Keith isn’t good enough for Hunk, but Hunk is pretty sure Lance doesn’t think anyone is good enough for him- not even himself. Maybe Shiro. Pidge has been slowly forging a friendship with Keith and they think Hunk is good for him. They think Keith is good for Hunk too. Allura coos over them and Coran is decidedly without opinion, stating he doesn’t need to be in other people’s business.
Regardless of what the others think of them, falling for a boy two thousand miles away fucking sucked.
1. to pass, spend, or survive the winter: to overwinter on the Riviera.
Origin: Old English had the verb oferwintran “to get through the winter,” but it became obsolete at the end of the Old English period (about 1150). Overwinter was formed anew at the end of the 19th century on the model of Scandinavian, e.g., Danish and Norwegian overvintre, Swedish övervintra ; Dutch overwinteren ; or German überwintern.
“Each fall, millions of delicate orange and black butterflies fly more than two thousand miles from the United States and Canada to overwinter in the mountains of central Mexico.“ - Mary Alice Monroe, The Butterfly’s Daughter, 2011
felled from WASTE brick dull and yellow paste teen mothers, fathers college-aged smell of alcohol and marijuana white trash confederate flags in the mid-atlantic makes me sick , as if any kid deserves it: colorist parents hypocrites misogynists pumping children full of rage takes a lifetime of commitment to undo it
i had to sell my soul for a piece of freedom two thousand miles away and i still felt the town like a chokehold ‘round my neck i couldn’t save you because i was too busy running away while being strangled
i loved you so much and didn’t show it because i had one life and had to save it that town had a tombstone made for me engraved for me i couldn’t stay for you even though you saved me
and i’m sorry, i’m sorry that i let fear pave the way for me
i guess it won– however way you look at it, it won and i’m sorry but damn me to hell or back to anywhere but there i’d redo things if i could, but i wouldn’t have survived and here i am with this hOMETOWN like a hangman’s knot i cannot save you and i must now save myself.
when we say “West Africa” let’s remember that we’re talking about a region that consists of 15 countries, over 300 million people, hundreds of different languages and cultures—one that spans over two thousand miles.
He approaches the smaller boy slowly, regarding him down the bridge of his nose, hands folded authoritatively over his chest. Apparently some kid nearby was engaging in illicit activity, and when Miles entered the woods to investigate with a couple of guards, lo and behold, there he was. Great. He didn’t have the patience for unruly children today.
“Your struggles have only just begun. This is a no-hunting zone, young man. I hope that you are prepared to pay for your transgression. Literally.”
“You’ll be charged a one thousand dollar fine, as per the law of this land. For each rabbit. Two thousand for that bear.” With the current exchange rate between Hoshidan and Makellosian money, that would result in a pretty hefty bill…
VoleHunt: Due to a food shortage, the crew resort to hunting the voles which have overtaken the airducts and Jeffries tubes. Worf gets 17. Dax gets 22. Chief O'Brien, who basically lives in the Jeffries tubes, captures 105. A vole feast is put on in his honour. Captain Sisko cooks them by modifying one of his father’s old recipes. Quark tries to sell vole-neck sweaters.
a surrogate serenity
the taste of my own skin
when i’m thinking of you.
my fingers clutching themselves,
i am comforted by pockets of white noise
& by ‘shut-the-fuck-up; i’m-done-
mushed together in sweet sotto voce;
they are my bread & meat.
a private dig soon becomes
more profound than penetration,
vows of tenderness
substituted for soft abuses;
the weight of two thousand miles
sits clotted on the tongue
& expectant language
endures elliptic labor
because we don’t know what form
our words will take.
we can only make love this way
through the mind,
through folded cranes & dropped calls
through the curses we fling
we can only know love this way
between ‘wish you were here’ &
‘can’t talk now; i’m hours ahead.’
we can only taste love this way
with cool confidentiality,
low laughter & ‘i never mean it
when i tease you. i just—’
‘—i know how you feel.
i know how
you feel, i
how you feel…’
January, 2017. This is my proof.
This is my proof that two thousand miles is only a number. Numbers that bind to plane ticket expenses are not barriers from keeping two people in love, apart. No matter what the cost, love travels and finds its home. It finds its person and thrives on the beauty of growing next to each other. Once you find that, you never let it go. This is my proof that distance can be beat. I know it, because we did it.
This is my proof.
the next time you come anywhere within two thousand miles of me im going to disintegrate you so hard that every family member within three generations of you will suffer faint indigestion for the next ten years
A/N: A few things I need to say/warn you about before you read this. I promised myself and about half a dozen other people that I would never write a fic where one of the mains dies. Well, I had to break that promise. I heard this song earlier this week, and a certain image came into my mind, and refused to leave me. I couldn’t work on either of the other fics I’m writing, because this mental image wouldn’t go away. So, I wrote this. It’s probably the darkest thing I’ve ever written. Having said that, there are some trigger warnings: sudden character death, suicide, car accident, depression, anxiety, and claustrophobia. I think that kind of covers everything, but if not, let me know and I’ll add it to the list. This song is truly haunting and I highly recommend listening to it.
Warning: This is not a happy fic.
Ghost in the Wind Song by: Birdy
Can someone tell me who I am? I haven’t recognized myself in a while
She was numb. She had been numb for six months. Six months of running, of hiding, of trying to forget. Six months of avoiding everything and everyone who reminded her of him. She barely spoke to her family, but when she did, it was only through text messages. She avoided her best friend like the plague, something she never thought would happen.
Six months of denying what happened. Six months of refusing to face the truth she knew she was running from. For a while, she thought her cowardly plan was working: two months in England, a month in Italy, six weeks in Germany, ten weeks in Spain.