michaelbirtportrait:Rosamund Pike photographed for Wadham College Oxford 2016. Warden Ken Macdonald QC has led this project to showcase a more balanced selection of images of Wadham’s alumni and fellows across the College site: “We felt it was time to portray some of Wadham’s most distinguished women in Hall, alongside those grand figures from Wadham’s past that have graced our walls for so long. These extraordinary new portraits will provide our students with inspirational images to reflect more fully our College in this new century.“
I WAS KIND OF HOPING THIS COULD BE YOUR PRESENT...
@lovesettokillxo asked : Hey today is my birthday so I wanted to know if you could write something along the lines of being Jungkook’s best friend but him only seeing you as a little sister unlike how you see him… and he finally sees you in different light on your birthday (p.s can you include thigh riding and rough kooki that would make my entire life thanks 🙏🏽)
A/N: Happy Birthday! This is my present to you lol….
Summary: He’d always seen you as his best friend, his partner in crime. But on your birthday something changed. He wanted… more.
Warnings: smut, language, the usual warnings for my writing lmao
Word Count: 2107
When you were two you’d met Jungkook at the park. The two of you had gone down the slide together and it was there that he’d asked you to be his best friend forever. When you were five, you’d started kindergarten, Jungkook by your side. The two of you had drawn pictures for each other but still Jungkook remained your best friend and you remained his. When you were thirteen, you’d begun to understand that maybe, just maybe, Jungkook was more than a best friend to you. However, it was clear Jungkook saw you as his best friend and only his best friend. Upon entering high school, the two of you hadn’t had many classes together but still managed to eat lunch together with your other friends and study together after school. It seemed that nothing had changed between the two of you. You were best friends and you always would be.
Yet something had changed. You were in love with Jungkook, you couldn’t deny that. And he was blissfully oblivious. Typical. Your love wasn’t the only love he was oblivious to. Half of the girls at your school were fawning over him, and he seemed to have eyes for none of them. In some ways, that was a relief. In another, if he couldn’t see their love, would he ever be able to see yours?
Claire nuzzled against Jamie’s palm and slid her face
closer to his on the pillow.
He responded by weaving his legs in between hers
underneath his great-grandmother Fraser’s quilt. The soft blue light of dawn
filtered through the muslin curtains of the laird’s bedroom – just enough for
her to see him smile and close his eyes. Contented as a ginger cat.
Under no circumstances were they to be parted from each
other after their mutually earth-shattering revelations in the parlor
downstairs. And it was late, and the couch was a bit cramped, and they were
already dressed for bed – so Jamie had wordlessly stood, offered Claire his
hand, banked the fire, and quietly led her up the stairs and to the bedroom at
the end of the hallway.
He had been conceived and born in that room – as had his
father before him, and his grandfather before that, and countless other
generations of Frasers. He had officially moved into the room after his father
had died – and softly told Claire that she was the first woman he’d share the
Jamie’s thumb now stroked her cheek – gently, reverently.
And Claire couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to sleep beside him
on this mattress every night – to watch him smile in his sleep, to be held so
closely by him that his heartbeat echoed against hers, to quietly lay by his
side as they listened to the first larks chirp a cheery good morning outside.
To conceive her own children – Jamie’s children – protected by the souls of all
the Frasers that had gone before her, and then grip Jamie’s hand nine months
later as she graced the sacred walls with yet another Fraser to carry on the
tradition. Fulfilling the promise of his ancestors.
All in a rush she wanted these things. And she wanted
them with Jamie. She couldn’t wait to have them with Jamie.
But how would they make it work? She had to finish
school, she had to go back to Boston –
No. Not today. Let today be for quiet celebrations – for the
love she had been brave enough to find again with this man.
“Speak to me,” she breathed.
And somehow he knew she meant not in English – but in
Gaelic. The tongue of his ancestors. The language he had used to fall in love
Eyes still closed, he moved closer to bump the tip of his
nose against hers. She closed her own eyes, feeling the rush of warm air
against her lips, the deep rumble of his voice within his chest. Imagining they
were on a farm in the Scottish Highlands in the eighteenth century, waking to a
hazy dawn, sharing secrets beneath a quilt, nestled safely away from the world.
His voice was the second most beautiful sound she had
For the most beautiful sound was the half-laugh,
half-moan that formed deep in his throat when she interrupted his speech with a
long, slow kiss.
Today they had all the time in the world.
The larks had been joined by a cooing dove, now that the
sun had crested over the horizon. Jamie’s arms had locked around Claire,
burying his nose in the curls at the crown of her head as she lost herself in
the magic space in the crook of his neck. Breathing each other in. Still not
believing this to be real.
She whimpered when he pulled away – but he kissed her
forehead in reassurance and slipped out of bed. She watched him pad over to a
chest of drawers on the other side of the room, rummage around in the drawer
the top, and secret something small in the palm of his hand before quickly
crossing back to her and sitting on the edge of the mattress.
“Can you sit up for me, Claire?”
Puzzled, she did.
He held out his hand, and she extended her own palm.
To feel the rough oblong shapes of a freshwater pearl
“They’re North Carolina pearls,” he said softly, voice
far away. “They belonged to my mother. Now they belong to you.”
Carefully she unwound the strand, cradling it between her
“They’re one of the few things I have left of her. Very
precious to me.”
Then he lay a gentle hand on her knee, and she raised her
eyes to lock with his.
“As are you, Claire.”
His face was eager – serious – yearning.
Love surged in her heart, and tears welled in her eyes. Quietly
she wound the pearls around her neck, did the clasp, and settled the strand
against her bare collarbone.
Jamie said nothing – eyes full of fire.
She pushed back the quilt, shifted onto his lap, and
kissed his shoulder. Then the side of his neck. Then the square angle of his
“As are you, Jamie,” she whispered against his mouth.
Everything hurt. That was the first thing you realized when
you came to. The pain radiated outwards from your chest. Your ribs were either
bruised or broken. Breathing was a struggle. You were no longer in your
beaten-up car clutching Bucky’s hand, you were tied to a chair. You couldn’t see
anything in the room you were in.
All your other senses were on overdrive. You could hear a
leaky pipe, and it smelled like mold. It was humid in the room; the temperature
was horribly hot. There were rope ties around your wrists and ankles, keeping
you tied to a cold, metal chair.
In the heart of Beirut, architect Mona El Hallak herds a group of students together outside a monumental mansion — a vast, elegant building whose yellow walls and graceful pillars are ravaged by thousands of bullet holes.
“We are,” she shouts over the cacophonous traffic, “at the intersection of Damascus Road and Independence Avenue.”
Usually the bright sunlight woke you up when you slept in late, but today it was the cries of a baby. The body next to you didn’t move, and once the wails didn’t stop, you rolled over and walked down the hallway sheepishly.
You saw Charlie standing in his crib, crying hysterically, his arms reaching up towards you when you entered.You smiled as you walked over, taking him and putting him on your hip. You shushed him, smoothing down his hair as you bounced around. Slowly his cries subsided as a maid appeared in the doorway, shocked to see you there.
“Uh…Miss. Y/N, you don’t have to-” she began worriedly.
“It’s ok Mary, really.” You say as Charlie leans his head against you, his eyes getting heavy now that’s he calmed down.
Creepypasta #1081: In My Line Of Work, You'll Learn That Cheaters Never Prosper
Length: Super long
I’ve always found it
funny that people like to call prostitution “the world’s oldest
profession.” It doesn’t speak all that highly of the human race’s
priorities, does it?
Paint on cave walls. Discover fire. Pay someone to fuck you senseless.
Get that in Latin, and we could engrave it at the base of
every statue the world over - or better yet, build new statues, all shaped like
giant brass cocks at full salute. That’s the human mission statement in a
nutshell right there: here, we have two types of animal, the ones with the
dicks, and the ones getting fucked by them. And we will always - I repeat,
always - be the ones with the dicks.
Yes indeed, the world’s oldest profession. I can think of an older one, but we’ll get to that later.
It’s outside of a motel called Restin’ Easy that we lay our
scene. Picture this: a gorgeous woman stands up against a sand-blasted brick
wall, dressed to the nines in designer silks and a leather jacket. She’s taking
a long, sincere drag off a slender cigarette, and leaving blood-red lipstick
rings on the unburnt white paper of the shaft. She’s got the good looks of a
1960s movie star - a regular Audrey Hepburn in the making. Her black hair falls
just above her shoulders, and sways gently in the night’s breeze.
The balding middle-aged man in the tan jacket with a face
like a slapped ass, that’s Dave. Yeah, Dave with the greasy skin that tosses
back the neon rays of the glowing “VACANCY” sign above us. Dave the
big spender, flashing the wad of hundreds in his faux-leather wallet.
Dave the asshole. Dave the John.
“Crystal recommended you to me,” He says in an
unbearably cocky tone, like I’m a new brand of aftershave he’s been meaning to
try out for a while, “She said you do things no other girl will do. That
“More or less.” I say, feigning a provocative
When you’ve been in the business for as long as I have, you
get pretty good at sizing up your customers with a glance. Sometimes, it’s
necessary to survival - you look the wrong way in this line of work and you’ve
got a seven-inch stiletto buried between the links in your spine. Sex does
weird shit to people’s heads.
Dave, for all his faults, is easy to read. He wears a look
of contempt, like he’s too good for the situation he’s putting himself in. He’s
wealthy, and entitled. He doesn’t know why he’s paying for sex - a man of his
stature should be beating the ladies off with a stick, surely.
He probably sells used cars for a living, I think,
suppressing a smirk.
“What can I do for you that Crystal can’t, sugar?”
I ask with an innocent flutter of eyelashes.
He grunts, one side of his mouth curling into a sneer.
Summary- Negan and Sunny deal with the effects of their argument.
Who will bend or break?
Warnings- Angst, Smut, Edging, Daddy Kink, Squirting, Language
Author’s Note- Sorry this took so long to get out. Flu,
bronchitis, and plot bunny in shape of Max from The Resident took over my life.
However, since you guys waited so long, I combined what would have been 3 short
chapters into this much longer one. Also, I planned this story out before the
episode with sad Amber aired. So my Amber is a bitch. And I’m gonna screw
around with the time line to fit my story. It shouldn’t make much difference
since it’s hard to tell how much time passes between episodes sometimes.
Lots of tags not working. Sorry. I will try to message y’all individually.
Reblog and leave a comment if you like it! xoxo
Negan sat in his office staring at the new bedroom door. He
swirled the scotch, the ice gently clinked against the glass, and brought it to
his lips. He swallowed the last mouthful in one large gulp feeling warmth
spreading down his throat. He had everything ready. All he was missing was
fucking stubborn for her own good. She has no fucking clue how damn vulnerable
she is out there on her own. She’ll come the fuck around. She has to. I’ll
fucking make her. God fucking damnit.
♫ Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop- Landon Pigg//Marauders Era: Remus x Reader
Can you write something for Remus x reader with the song ‘falling in love at a coffee shop’ by Landon pigg please?
The rays of the sun turn a faint red, soon after morphing into a hazy purple as the faint shape of a crescent moon appears in the clear, darkening sky. Gentle gusts of wind come and go, dried tree branches snap under rushing feet and drying leaves that have now turned the familiar hues of Autumn pirouette through the crisp October air, finding their way to the ground.
The Three Broomsticks Inn is now lit only by torches that grace its walls. It’s almost completely emptied of the crowd that had spent the day sitting in its mismatched chairs and sliding goblets across the wooden counter for refills of burning alcohol and friendly remarks from the kind faced Madame that filled them to the brim each time.
Y/N smiles to herself, satisfied with the silence that now fills the space. The sound of a page flipped by her nimble fingers seems much louder than she had expected it to, soon echoed from the other end of the inn. Her eyes glanced up at the sound, meeting the brown eyes of a boy who, to her, was only accidental touches in the hallways and apologetic smiles until the moment her glance lifted from the page. Their eyes exchange inaudible whispers, hushed “Hello"s fluttering through the warmed interior as the woman behind the counter smirks at the scene.
The greetings remain unsaid, and infatuated eyes return to worn leafs of paper. The same smile spreads over both faces, undiscovered, yet still brightening the room, prompting a shaking head and a knowing smirk from Madame Rosmerta.
The sun shines brightly, the heat of its rays coated in the frosty air of the winter day. Cheeks are reddened, footprints left in the thin coat of snow that covers the ground, snowflakes sticking to the woolen fabric of hats. A bell rings as he enters, eyes wide open and roaming the room, looking for the girl who read and smiled, scanning the room for her y/e/c eyes, the scent of cinnamon reaching him only once he notices her in the very same place.