#marcella grace

[mirrormeeree]

best of Rosa Mulholland, "Marcella Grace" (1891)

this book. has committed crimes against butchness, here's a fixit

#irish lit #irish literature #rosa mulholland #marcella grace #land war novel #19th century novel #realism #ireland #irish literature without context: a series

[corallapis]

Henry ‘Chips’ Channon: The Diaries (Vol. 1), 1918-38, entry for 9th April 1923

—

Monday 9th April — Hackwood¹

Have been spending a few days here … a simpatico party … Lady Curzon, glittering, gracious and a supreme hostess, all the Duggans;² Lady Patricia Herbert³ (the very nicest girl in London, although Lady Mary Ashley⁴ runs her neck and neck …) … Mrs Vansittart,⁵ an affected American, Paul of Serbia⁶ …. Lord Curzon is away doing a Coué cure⁷ for the benefit of his leg or brow beating some important conference for the welfare of civilisation … I forget which. Lady Curzon told us of a conversation she had with Lord Balfour⁸ a few evenings ago. He was unusually playful and she depressed and discouraged, she is subject to unaccountable fits of Weltschmerz,⁹ which result, I think, from something unsatisfied in her.¹⁰ He tried to console her and talked to her beautifully about life and all she had to live for … her husband, the world’s most striking and brilliant man … her children charming … her friends many … her beauty unsurpassed. Next day he wrote her an inimitable note to say how much he had enjoyed being next to her. She, delighted, said to Lady Cunard¹¹ as she read it: ‘AJB is an angel — I should like to kiss him on the forehead’. Maud repeated this to him and his only comment was: ‘Why the forehead?’ Maud Cunard motored to Hackwood with Serge Obolensky¹² for what she calls ‘the day in the country’ on Sunday. They arrived at six o’clock. She pretended never to have seen plus fours before and said ‘And what has little Paul got on? And Chips¹³ too what are they?’ She made us rock with laughter for two hours with stories about herself and her hatred of the country, etc. She said that all Nancy’s troubles were due to the fact that her father ‘my dear at the age of 12 had put her … put her on a horse, a four-legged horse’. As she was leaving we loaded her car with guns, tennis racquets, golf clubs, etc. She was much flustered at this or pretended to be and shook hands with a footman and ‘bobbed’ to the butler and was amazing but delicious … all pink and white, like a sweet, and dressed in a costume de sport made by Vionnet.¹⁴ Serge was anxious to return as he is wooing Alice Astor.¹⁵ I introduced them … I shall now have this new romance on my conscience.

—

1. Hackwood Park, near Basingstoke in Hampshire, rented by Lord Curzon from 1906 until 1925.

2. Lady Curzon’s children by her first marriage: Alfred Duggan (1903–64), who became a minor novelist; Hubert Duggan (1904–43), Tory MP for Acton from 1931 to 1943 and anti-appeaser in the 1930s; and (Grace) Marcella Duggan (1907–95).

3. Patricia Herbert (1904–94), by courtesy Lady Patricia Herbert from 1913, daughter of the 15th Earl of Pembroke and 12th Earl of Montgomery, married in 1928 William Henry Smith, 3rd Viscount Hambleden (1903–48). She was a Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Elizabeth from 1937 until 1994.

4. Lady Mary Sibell Ashley-Cooper (1902–36), daughter of the 9th Earl of Shaftesbury, married in 1928 Napier George Henry Sturt (1896–1940), who in 1919 succeeded his father as 3rd Baron Alington of Crichel. He died on active service in Egypt during the Second World War, though of drink rather than in action.

5. Gladys Robinson-Duff (1892–1928), daughter of General William C. Heppenheimer of the United States, married in 1921 Robert Gilbert Vansittart (1881–1957), who would be Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office from 1930 to 1938, and who would be raised to the peerage in 1941 as 1st Baron Vansittart. Vansittart was also an accomplished novelist, playwright and poet.

6. Prince Paul of Yugoslavia (1893–1976) had known Channon at Oxford and would remain one of his closest friends, and be Prince Regent of Yugoslavia (the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes) from 1934 to 1941 during the minority of Peter II. He was the nephew of King Peter I and married Princess Olga of Greece and Denmark (1903–97), sister-in-law of Channon’s other closest friend, the Duke of Kent. After treating with the Germans in 1941 Paul was forced from Yugoslavia and forbidden ever to return; the post-war communist regime stripped him of his property and proclaimed him an enemy of the state. Until 1945 the British authorities held him in Kenya under house arrest. Serbia rehabilitated him posthumously in 2011, after which he was reburied with Princess Olga and their son Nicholas.

7. A psychotherapy-based cure featuring auto-suggestion, fashionable but heavily criticised at the time, developed by Émile Coué de la Châtaigneraie (1857–1926), a French psychologist.

8. A. J. Balfour, raised to an earldom in 1922.

9. World-weariness.

10. Curzon was desperate for a male heir (he had three daughters from his first marriage) to the earldom and marquessate he had obtained; various medical procedures had been followed to help Lady Curzon conceive, but no child resulted and the marriage was strained accordingly.

11. Maud Alice Burke (1872–1948), born in San Francisco, married in 1895 Sir Bache Cunard, 3rd Bt (1851–1925), grandson of the shipping line’s founder. They had lived largely apart since 1911, Cunard basing himself in Leicestershire where he enjoyed field sports. In London with their daughter Nancy Clara (1896–1965), Lady Cunard – who after her husband’s death became known as ‘Emerald’ – established one of the leading salons of the era, which thrived until the Second World War. After separating from her husband she became the mistress of Sir Thomas Beecham, the conductor, and funded many of his musical projects.

12. Prince Sergei (‘Serge’) Platonovich Obolensky Neledinsky-Meletsky (1890–1978) had been educated at Oxford and became part of the Russian diaspora after the revolution. He emigrated to America and became a successful businessman.

13. The first time in the diaries that he refers to his nickname.

14. Madeleine Vionnet (1876–1975) was one of Paris’s leading fashion designers of the interwar years.

15. Ava Alice Muriel Astor (1902–56), daughter of John Jacob Astor IV. She and Obolensky married in 1924 and divorced in 1932. She would marry four times before her death at the age of 54.

#chips channon #channon diaries #1923 #1920s #grace curzon #alfred duggan #hubert duggan #marcella rice #patricia hambleden #mary alington #gladys vansittart #prince paul of yugoslavia #george curzon #arthur balfour #emerald cunard #prince serge obolensky #nancy cunard #madeleine vionnet #alice astor #hackwood park

[realjennyrae]

Amicable Acolytes Family Rotation 3:

Grace Anansi decided that they wanted to celebrate their new spellcaster ranking by flaunting some new sexy lingerie! They called over Naenia to share the good news and make out in their room.

After Naenia left, Grace decided to keep the party going and invited Marcella over. Grace gave her a little dance and then made out with her in their room  until Tomax got home.

Sims 4 Rotation 3 || Glimmerbrook Families || Amicable Acolytes

#amicablerotation3 #grace anansi #naenia blackwell #marcella bailey moon #sims #sims 4 #ts4 #simblr #rotational gameplay

[beautifulfaces-icons-and-gifs]

Maeve Dermody on Marcella Season 1

as Grace on Marcella [S1|E1]

Information on beautifulfaces

Like or reblog.

#Maeve Dermody #Maeve Dermody icons #icons: Maeve Dermody #Maeve Dermody as grace #Maeve Dermody on marcella #Maeve Dermody marcella #marcella #marcella season 1 #marcella season 1 episode 1 #marcella s1 e1 #icons

[sunshinies]

✧° Kokomi inspired names/pronouns/titles ! °✧

art by x ! rq by @bipbopp !

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

🫧 names:

adriana , amara , amphitrite , aquamarine , aquila , ariel , aurelia , azure , brooke , calliope , calypso , chloe , coral , coralia , cordelia , dahlia, delmare , delphine , destiny , doria , isla , jellie , jillie , jubilee , julie , kendra , lumina , marcella , margot , marina , marin , marnie , melusine , meri , nadia , neptuna , neptunea , nerida , nerissa , nixie , oceana , pearl , pearlina , selene, lyra , sirena , skipper , summer , thalassa, xenia , undine , vivienne

🐚 pronouns:

shell/shells/shellself , mer/mers/merself , sea/seas/seaself , aqua/aquas/aquaself , cor/coras/coralself , blub/blubs/blubself , dive/dives/diveself , pearl/pearls/pearlself , splish/splashes/splashself , reef/reefs/reefself , che/cherish/cherishself , kyu/kyus/kyuself , cute/cutes/cuteself , fin/fins/finself , sea/sear/searself , fish/fishs/fishself , fae/faer/faerself , ei/eir/eirself , glub/glubs/glubself , jell/jells/jellself

🌊 titles:

the pearl of wisdom , her oceanic glow , the lady of tranquil waters , she who enchants with grace , the lady of the ocean's embrace , she who gleams like pearls , her healing waters , her fearless elegance , the lady of the shimmering tide , she who leads with valor , the one who walks on water , she of the raging sea

prns and gendered terms may be replaced.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

additional tags: @eternoelle @hauntingidol @delusielle @puriette @the-astropaws @cocajimmycola

#sunrise #mogai #liom #actually mogai #xenogender #liom coining #title suggestions #name suggestions #pronoun suggestions #neopronouns #neopronoun list #kokomi #sangonomiya kokomi #genshin impact #kin #introject #fictive #irl #therian #fictkin #fictionkin #kin help

[atomic--peach]

Her Grace's Handmaid Pt.7

(Cersei Lannister x Fem Reader x Sandor Clegane Smut: Praise Kink, Oral {m receiving}, Breeding Kink, Fluff. )

AO3 VERSION: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48276340

The Wedding itself was rushed.

They received Lord and Lady Stark's blessing to use the Winterfell sept to perform the ceremony, and Septon Chayle was more than willing to help once he was convinced neither you nor Sandor were being forced against your will.

Which wasn't technically true, but honestly it just seemed easier to go with it than fight against it. If it had to be anyone, you thought as you entered the great sept decorated with carved masks of The Seven, at least it was him.

Sandor's house was too new to have a cloak to slip over your back, and even if they had it would have been in the Westerlands. Instead they used his regular riding cloak, which was warm and woolen.

The king presided over the ceremony, along with Cersei who looked as if someone was sticking a knife between her ribs to keep her there. Prince Joffery had insisted upon coming out of morbid curiosity. Perhaps he thought they would drag you into the sept kicking and screaming. Princess Marcella tailed her older brother, convinced the wedding would be a romantic affair.

"One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever"

The kiss was a surprisingly soft one, his whiskers prickled your cheeks, but his lips found your almost out of instinct. They were warm and insistent. When he pulled away, you wished he hadn't.

"Congratulations, you two" Chayle nodded, gathering his official looking robes around him. "I wish you both a long and happy life together."

"Thank you, Septon." You nodded politely. Sandor didn't even acknowledge him as he left, looking to the royals with hard eyes that begged the question of "now what?"

"Well now" Robert grumbled, "That's that settled then. Right?"

"Yes, Your grace." You curtseyed meekly, tucking your small hand it to Sandor's gloved one.

"We should give you a minute." Cersei breathed, "Come darlings, the Starks are feasting us tonight we should get ready."

The matriarch led the royal family out of the sept, the door closing with an echoing clang.

"Are you okay?" You whispered, squeezing his hand slightly. "You haven't said anything."

"Fine" He nodded, "You?"

"Good." You confirmed. "You don't think they expect us to..." You led off into the open air.

Sandor grunted, "No one's going to force you to fuck me, if that's what your worried about."

"Hey" you snapped at him, pulling his arm with surprising strength so he was facing you. "First of all, No one could force me to do anything I don't want to do if they tried. Secondly, it's less the act of fucking you I'm worried about and more the complete lack of privacy."

"Oh" Sandor's brow arched, "Now she's worried about privacy. If you had thought of that before, we wouldn't be here."

You knew he was just teasing you from his tone, and you bumped him with your hip slightly. "Fuck you."

The sept door opened slightly, drawing you attention as the queen slipped through the crack.

"Your Grace" you breathed, "Are you-"

"I'm fine." She nodded, "Robert is satisfied. it seems we are off the hook for now."

She eyed the two of you together with a strange glow behind her eyes.

"Have you two...?" she tried to find the words, "I have arranged for a room below to be made up for you. I know it's not much of a wedding, but for the marriage to be legal you will have to-"

"We figured." Sandor grunted, seeming almost embarrassed.

"Sweetling," Cersei eyed you, "would you give me a minute with your husband? Alone?"

"Oh" You blinked, "I- Of course Your Grace. I'll be outside."

The pair of them watched you go before Cersei turned to The Hound with a cold look. She wanted to blame him, yet couldn't.

She wanted to punish him for getting close to you, even if it wasn't his fault.

But it would do her no good to make an enemy of him.

"Clegane, I want you to know how grateful I am for your cooperation in this."

Sandor didn't respond, not bothering to point out he didn't really have a choice in it.

"However, if the rush of things I know some details have been overlooked." Cersei continued, "How well do you know your new wife?"

"Well enough." Sandor shrugged.

"She's special, you know" Cersei impressed upon him. "As loyal as any pet and as sweet as can be. And so trusting."

Sandor's attention was on her, but Cersei couldn't tell if her words were making any impact, which was frustrating.

"If you plan to rape her tonight, I will make sure you never leave this wretched castle alive."

Sandor swallowed at this, caught fully off guard but trying hard not to show it.

"I hadn't made any such plans, Your Grace" He said stiffly, "but the night is still young."

Cersei's face twisted in rage at his implication, wanting nothing more than to have his ugly head mounted on the castle gates.

------

The room was tucked away in the lower levels of Winterfell. You had expected it to be cold, but instead it was pleasantly warm compared to the temperatures above ground.

The chamber itself was mostly empty. These rooms hadn't been used in years; the steward had assured you as you were led down the stairs by torchlight. Sandor had to duck to enter the doorway, finding you sitting on the large bed waiting for him.

"You'd think they'd have let you finish early, all things considered" You joked, moving to help him settle in. You had been sent down earlier, but mostly because queen had not yet figured out what to do with you.

You carefully helped him remove his plate armor bit by bit, until he sighed from the weight being lifted off of him.

He hadn't spoken much; he never spoke much. But particularly now it was worrying, mostly because all you wanted was to talk your nervousness away.

"Sandor?" Your hand moved from his arm to his face, "Please, talk to me. Say something, anything, if only to make me less nervous about all of this."

Sandor sighed, "Okay, what do you want to talk about?"

"Well." You began, "Do you want to do this tonight?"

He stopped at the question and looked at you.

"Because it's okay if you don't." You assured him, "We've been around each other for over a month and you've never tried to...Well I just thought it you wanted to, you'd have tried by now."

He considered this a moment, sitting on a spare chair to get more on your level with his legs spread out lazily. You moved closer to him as his large hands guided you between them.

"You think I haven't thought about it?" He confessed, "You think all those days you spent following me around, those nights you spent sleeping in the stables I didn't imagine dragging your foolish ass into my tent and fucking that kicked puppy look off your face?"

You flushed at this, leaning against his thigh hesitantly as if to ask permission before his hands gripped your waist and pulled you up to straddle his lap. Your toes barely scrapped the floor on either side of him.

"When you let the queen fuck you so the whole camp could hear, do you really think I was the only one who wasn't imagining making you moan like that?" He leaned forward, face less than an inch from yours. "You think when that fat fuck of a king said told us we'd be getting married, a part of me didn't say 'Fucking Finally'?"

Brushing your nose against his cheek, you felt your body begin to quiver on his lap.

"Sandor" You breathed against his ear, "Gods, hold me."

He obeyed, wrapping his arms around you to press your body to his tightly. You breathed in his scent of leather and smoke, hands crawling up and down his back and shoulders to memorize every ridge and groove of his muscled body.

Slowly, you began rocking your hips against his. Grind yourself against him until you felt a hardness so long it almost frightened you grow under the fabric of his trousers.

He was so warm; his body was like a furnace. Radiating heat that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket as his hands stationed themselves on the swell of your hips and guided your movements.

"Sweetling" His voice was a growl, so different from the way Cersei's sweet voice taunted you. This was a rumble, deep and heavy, "Fuck, keep doing that, and we won't even make it to the bed."

You whined but stopped obediently, allowing his hands to peel you off his lap and standing you on your own two feet.

"Good Girl." He smirked, eyes scanning you like a search light. "You have two choices, either you strip for me yourself, or I tear those clothes off of you. Your choice."

Gods did you want the second one, but you only had three dresses to your name so instead you began to strip at an achingly slow pace, tightening the spring both in both your bodies and knowing it would make it feel that much better when it snapped.

"That's it, nice and slow" Sandor's hand slowly cupped his hardening cock through his pants as he took in the sight of your body, the other hand working to take off his belt and loosen his strings. "Now, come here."

You obeyed, instinctively getting on your knees as you settled between his thighs. You purred hungrily, rubbing your face along the inside of his thigh and nestling your mouth over the imprint of his cock but waiting patiently for him to give permission to fully take him.

A growl formed in his throat like rolling thunder, his hand finding your hair and struggling not to press you down harder.

"Please," You whimpered, trying to seem as appealing as possible.

Sandor chuckled darkly at that. "Please what?"

"Please let me take your cock out." You persisted, "We've waited long enough for each other. Please don't tease me, Sandor."

The sound of your voice whining out his name, begging for him, made the Hound harder than he's ever been.

"Whatever you want."

That was all the permission you needed, quickly clawing past his small clothes and slipping the large, warm head of his cock down your throat.

You reveled at that sounds you managed to coax out of him, having caught him off guard and unprepared for how eager you'd become. His grip on your hair had become painful, so you gently urged it down to the back of your neck, allowing him to scruff you like one does a pup and guide your head up and down.

"Gods" He choked out as you took his deeper.

You knew he was too long for you to take fully, and so pumped the remainder of his length with your hand, allowing your other hand to wander between your legs.

The way your moans vibrated around him almost sent the hound over the edge, knuckled white from gripping the arm of the chair her found himself unexpectedly trapped in.

"Fuck, Fuck!" Sandor didn't usually finish quickly, but the look in your eyes as you swallowed his load told him that had been exactly what you wanted.

Breathing heavily, he tried to catch his breath as you climbed back onto his lap, cunt down drenched and dripping from touching yourself for him.

"Darling" You cooed into his ears, "I haven't worn you out too quickly, have I?"

"Fuck that." Sandor growled, grip tightening around you. "You're not getting off that easily, you evil little minx."

"Good" You grinned, kissing a line up his neck along the scared half of his face, "Because I'm not stopping until we're both half dead and sure you've fucked an heir into me."

Sandor rumbled, snatching you off his lap and throwing you over his shoulder. You laughed at this, kicking your legs eagerly as he delivered you onto the bed and pinned you under his weight.

"Your precious twins told me what a sweet girl you are." He taunted you, pinning your wrists by your head. "How trusting and innocent"

He ducked his head down to take a nipple into his mouth. The heat of his tongue and the gentle pressure of his teeth making your back arch and press your breast firmer against his face. Your moans came in sharp, quick gasps as one hand released your wrist in favor of massaging the other breast with rough, calloused palms. Your freed hand flew to his hair, gripping it tightly as you cried out.

"Do they know?" He pressed, scrapping his teeth over your tit before switching to the other side, "What an eager little slut you are? How happy you were to hop into bed with me?"

You wanted to shake your head, but in truth you weren't sure if he was actually expecting an answer. Instead, you tried to move your mind away from them and onto your husband.

"I don't want to talk about them" You confessed, "Oh fuck, just like that, Darling."

Sandor hummed thoughtfully at this.

"You don't want to think of them?"

"No."

"No?" Sandor, shifted upwards and turned his attention from your breasts to your neck, sucking so hard it would surely bruise. He rubbed the length of his cock up and down your slit teasingly.

"Then how about I fuck you so hard, you forget their names? Would you like that, sweetling?"

Your moan came out as a growl as you clawed at his shirt, desperate to feel more of his skin on top of you.

"Answer me."

"Yes" you begged, "Gods, Sandor I can't take much more waiting."

And you didn't have to. Sandor's knees began to push your legs apart as he lifted up enough to strip off his shirt and trousers.

He was large, larger than you had previously taken and your hesitance must have shown on your face, because instead of crawling back on top of you like he planned, he instead rolled over so you were on top straddling him.

The tip went in easy enough, but his cock grew girthier as you slid down, and by halfway you found yourself panting.

"Easy" He hushed you, "Go slowly."

You nodded, carefully bouncing on what you could take so far. It was far more filling than any you'd taken before, and it was as if something inside of you shifted with each little bit you took.

"Fuck' You whimpered; eye twisted closed in focus "I'm not sure it'll fit."

Rough fingers found your clit, shocking your eyes open as it rolled and pressed against the sensitive bundle.

"Ah" You gasped, instinctively rolling your hips and rocking to the tempo. "Oh Gods,"

"That's it" Sandor breathed, watching as a bit more of his length sank deeper into your cunt, "just relax and take it like I know you can."

Your core began to tighten as his fingers pressed harder and his other hand began to guide you in sliding up and down the length of his cock, taking it a little deeper each time.

"Good girl, sweet girl" Sandor's breath was getting heavier, closing his eyes to focus and to push his release off as long as possible. "Just like that, fuck."

After thinking you had grown accustomed to his size, you bounced a little harder and cried out in shock. Sandor's cock filled you to the hilt, your hips pressed together as close as possible.

"Sh, sh." Sandor wrapped one arm around your waist and one round your shoulders, shifting into a sitting position while still buried deep inside of you. "Breathe, just breathe."

"Fuck" You gripped his broad shoulders, "it's. deep" you spoke between gasps.

"Do you want to stop?"

"No." You shook your head. "No, I just need a minute."

Sandor didn't protest, instead focusing on the shifting and pulsing walls wrapped around his cock, desperately attempting to accommodate him.

"Look at me." He breathed.

You obeyed, leaning back to face him fully.

It was a level of intimacy you had never experienced before, or even thought possible. Him being buried so deeply inside of you as you straddled his hips. Chest to chest, both breathing heavily.

You looked him in the eye, frowning for a moment before reaching up to brush away the shaggy hair that hung over the scarred half of his face.

"There you are" You whispered playfully, trying to break the tension enough to relax.

"Gods" Sandor breathed, "You look beautiful like this."

Entwining your fingers behind his neck, you rocked your hips slowly, not allowing his length to withdraw entirely before rocking back as before.

This time you kept him nestled deep inside of you as you panted and ground against him. The friction reached your clit, sending lightening through your hips and urging you forward.

Sandor groaned, feeling you clench around him as you chased your high. Your hands tangled in his hair and pressed his face to yours, catching his lips and exploring each other's mouths with curious tongues and eager lips.

"Fuck" you squealed into his ear, locking your arms around his neck. "I'm so close. So close, please. Gods, ah"

Your words came as nearly incoherent ramblings, hips bucking and grinding against him desperately until a flood of pleasure filled you.

It wasn't like with Cersei, or with Jaime. They had been fast, and brutal. Their pleasure came like a bolt of lightning hitting the back of the skull.

This pleasure came like a flash flood, filling you quickly and lingering as your muscles spasmed and tenses in an unknown rhythm. It ebbed away slowly but left you warm and glowing.

When Sandor realized you were cumming, he allowed himself to release deeply inside of you, flooding your womb with his seed and a heat that filled your stomach.

As the flood ebbed away, the two of you sat there, still connected and not wanting to separate.

"I want to stay like this." you begged him in a whisper he couldn't bear to deny. "Please."

Nodding, he pulled the blanket that had fallen half off the bed over the two of you as you leaned on his chest, your chin resting on his shoulder. Neither of you spoke, only lulling each other into sleep with gentle touches and heavy breathing.

#sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane imagine #cersei lannister x reader #cersei lannister imagine #sandor clegane smut #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf smut #game of thrones smut #game of thrones fanfiction #game of throne imagine #Her Grace's Handmaiden

[eesirachs]

Favorite theologians?

monica r miller, nomalungelo khumalo, shelly rambo, griselda pollock, bracha ettinger, julia kristeva, helene cixous, edward schillebeeckx, grace cho, rhiannon graybill, marcella althaus-reid, mayra rivera, reed carlson, ingrid lilly, saidiya hartman. no one is doing it like them

#for more recs as always go to my goodreads! but these are the best of the best #ask #faq

[aedisveneris]

YOU’RE GONNA NEED A BIGGER BOAT What You’re Woefully Unprepared For pick a card

Whenever you’re ready your message is under the cut…

DISCLAIMER

This work is done for the love of Tarot and is intended only for those open to it. It is in no way intended to be professional advice. I cannot make up truths or make decisions for you. Please consume this, and all general online readings, responsibly. For legal reasons, this online reading is for entertainment purposes only.  

Thanks for being here!

MARKERS

Sacred Symbols by Marcella Kroll

PILE 1

You’re in luck!  Its not so much that you’re not prepared for something so much as its that you’d greatly benefit from properly preparing for it.

Whatever you’re getting ready to embark on does actually hold the promise of success for you. But there’s a weight you’re carrying that’ll not only slow you down on your way, it can cost you success.

Whether its an internal wound or a standing problem, there’s something that demands your attention before you begin this new journey. Once cleared, you can progress to your victory unhindered. 

Get all the details over at the full reading!

PILE 2

What you’re unprepared for is the weight of a psychic’s responsibility. Yes your gifts can and do benefit you. But as channels to divine wisdom, we don’t always get to gatekeep that wisdom from people we don’t like or agree with. 

No one with access to psychic gifts is a stranger to discomfort. Take the difficult task of helping someone you’d rather ignore not as a practice in forgiveness or honor (you can if you want to) but rather as a chance to demonstrate the grace and wisdom you’ve learned and been shown. 

For all the details head over to the full reading…

PILE 3

You’ve got huge goals and ambitions and you’re completely unprepared to achieve them. Don’t worry too much though, you’ve got what it takes to succeed.

The problem is that you simply don’t YET have the necessary experiences, knowledge, and/or skills for victory. And that’s completely okay. What’s not okay is to try for something before you’re ready for it. 

Take the time to learn what you have to, trust the right people to guide you when you need it; over time you’ll grow into your huge capacity and as such gain access to your huge goals and ambitions. 

Head over to the full reading for all the details!

#tarot #tarot reading #pick a card #pick a card reading #readings #ygnabb #avhygnabb #avh23 #avh

[saintmelangell]

(Ssorry 2 reference ur main 🙏) you recommended a few authors at one point that that included mary daly, and you mentioned that her views are outdated. i do plan to read her but until then, could i ask in what way her views are outdated? i keep seeing mentions of her name too in non theological feminist circles and something about dalyites?

(sorry for replying to this late i was in another country and didn't have my laptop lol) most people on this website would call mary daly a terf, although the term did not exist during the days of daly's scholarship. daly was trans-exclusionary and often viciously so. she was unable to modernize her thought to engage with evolving feminisms and thus she was unable to engage critically or helpfully with transgender rights. katherine o'donnell from university college dublin has written a paper on this topic that i highly recommend: daly was so focused on refuting aquinas and the oppressive patriarchal underpinnings of theology that she was unable to imagine a non-polarized approach to masculine/feminine binaries, and furthermore also unable to engage with critical race theory in a way that was helpful or progressive. to that end she was actually "called out" in a letter by audre lorde for her racial ignorance. for instance, daly compared a woman asking for equality in the church to a black person asking for equality in the klu klux klan. i get her point, but its an absolutely horrible analogy. i think daly allowed her frustration with religion to turn inward so much it made her myopic and her work often ineffective, but not without value.

daly eventually stopped doing theology work because she thought it was "hopelessly" patriarchal and shifted to philosophical feminism. prior to this shift she began incorporating wicca into her work, although she did not consider herself wiccan. i am also on the verge of giving up on theology because i agree with it being hopelessly patriarchal, but i do not consider wicca a viable alternative and i think philosophy is similarly, though not as intrinsically, as patriarchal as religion.

although i am not a terf and my work is focused on the rights of marginalized genders and sexualities, not exclusively women, i work with daly in my research. im mentioning this in an effort to combat the mentality that seems to be extremely prevalent these days where we completely reject certain thinkers (mainly women) for their problematic thought. scholarship is not a vacuum. no scholarship is presented as or should be taken as watertight, because we build on past scholarship in what? a hope that we can get closer to a truth. a scholar who presents their view unequivocally as the only correct one is a fascist and should not be paid attention to because by definition they cannot be engaged with effectively. this is not what daly was, although she was very misguided and lacked an effective cultural framework to understand the issue of trans rights and accept the invaluable role which trans people play in feminism and the rights of women and marginalized identities.

i would not call daly an influence on me, but because of my research her ideas- which were not original, are shared by grace jantzen, and come mainly from the work of erich fromm- about the patriarchy as necrophiliac are extremely important to me. i am using this idea to develop a better understanding of how patriarchy, including terfs, oppress the marginalized, especially woc and trans women. i do scholarship in awareness of daly's transphobia, and i take what is useful to modern feminism from her work because christian feminist theology would not be what it is today without daly. but the majority of scholarship i work with comes from queer and woc theologians: marcella althaus-reid, for instance, was a working class latina. audre lorde and bell hooks are much more important influences on me than daly will ever be. but i would not be a good scholar if i couldn't engage with problematic work and be able to derive what is both useful and not useful from it. if i simply ignored daly's scholarship, that would leave a gap in modern scholarship where terfs in theology could exploit that weakness and utilize daly against trans inclusion. by working with daly and, in a sense, using her work against itself (which one must do when working with theology because daly is right: it is hopelessly patriarchal), i am stopping up the gaps where bad scholarship could get through. i am exploiting the faults in daly's thought by drawing what is useful and using it in a new context that it was not intended for, but i am not dismissing daly because i couldn't do the thinking i am doing now without the work she did. she has created a foundation of both anti-patriarchy and anti-transness from which i can build my own anti-patriarchy, trans-inclusionary theology.

we come from contexts oppression. everything does. if we wipe out all of oppressive thought from our contemporary thinking and scholarship, we lose contexts, we lose the ability to combat the impression that is inevitable. how can i combat terfs now if i don't understand where they are getting their ideas from? how can i effectively show that trans exclusion is useless, anti-christian, anti-feminist and ideologically deadly if i haven't worked with the same scholarship terfs use for their ideas? i am more interested in showing how oppressions simply do not make logical sense than i am in keeping my scholarship "clean." i would rather wade into the mire to find the bottom of the pit than pretend the pit doesn't exist. i dont have to like daly, and i don't. i do have to be able make ideologies look stupid. and you. (not you specifically, anon, but anyone reading this who is under the idea that we shouldn't read problematic authors or scholars because their ideas are outdated and bad.) you should too.

#replies #hopefully this doesnt piss anyone off but this is the piss people off website

[evita-shelby]

Could you do something with a reader who tommy is completly in love with but shes very blunt and just laughts at his face .

And i dont know where the phrase is from ( i saw it in a vintage movie with a friend ) but is something like :

I will marry you

I woud rather die !

Thank you

The Taste of Freedom

Gif by @theshelbyclan

“Marry me.” He asks as he stands at a crossroads.

“I’d rather die.” You say bluntly. “I’ve seen how you treated your wives; I’d rather not be next.”

You liked him, you enjoyed being with him, but you like the freedom you have even more.

You’ve told him so many times. The first time the night before his wedding to Grace and the last time when Lizzie finally developed the strength to fucking leave him.

If you had a husband like your lover, you would be miserable. Tommy is a great lover and a passable enough father, but not a good husband.

Just like you weren’t cut out for traditional womanhood. You liked travelling, you liked walking into the boardroom and calling the shots, you liked showing the world that you were as good as man or even better.

He loved that about you, he always said he did.

So why does Tommy keep asking you to clip your wings and chain yourself to him?

You feel like Marcella in Don Quixote, always being told to give up your life and your dreams to be some man’s wife and to have children you never wanted in the first place.

You were born free and you will die free.

You only wish Thomas and all the other men

#thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader

[alavestineneas]

King's Will

pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x OFC

summary: In the game of chess, the queen has more freedom on the chessboard. In that sense, the queen is the most powerful piece. On the other hand, the king has more value. Because if you lose the king, you lose the game. 

warnings: arranged marriage, medieval violence, slow burn

chapter 1 -> 2 -> 3 -> 4 -> 5

The chambers were quiet, with only the slow crackling of wood in the chimney disturbing the prince's peace. She was tired of reading; the book, long forgotten, was shyly lying at the edge of the wooden table, covered in rich gold ornaments. The dinner, served no more than a few minutes ago, was already growing cold from the weather outside. The winters in King's Landing weren't as harsh as the northern ones, but they were still too cold for a daughter of Highgarden's summers. The evenings were the coldest, and she usually spent them alone.

Her royal husband was nowhere to be found; the servants lowered their eyes to the ground each time Marcella dared to ask where he was. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of what looked like a golden star in the sky above or saw him during long audiences with the Queen. But more usual, she saw him in their shared chambers, drunk out of his mind and already asleep. He reeked of alcohol and beasts, more often than not covered in dirt and ash. She never asked, and he never told. They rarely talked at all.

When he did manage to stand on his own, they took care of the marriage duty. Marcella grew nauseous even after thinking of it. It was the worst thing about marrying a prince.

The door opened with a loud bang, revealing Prince Aegon in all his might. He was wearing those weird clothes again—something torn and dirty. It looked like he robbed some beggars near the castle before coming in, and he smelled the same.

''Come on!'' he exclaims, opening his arms as if for a hug. ''Don't be shy; we are married, remember?''

There is not much she can say; the easiest way out is to let him do what he wants. So, Marcella bites her cheek when his sloppy kisses travel down her neck and keeps her mouth shut when he takes off her nightgown. It's awful, almost humiliating, to hear his breath quicken. To feel him inside. She smiles when it's finally over, and he plants the last, tired kiss on her head before getting under the covers. Marcella knows better than to disturb her husband's sleep; instead, she cries silently, mindful of staining his pillow with tears.

A soft knocking is heard, and Marcella has to snap out of her trance, gathering the tears building in her eyes with a cloth. It's a servant, one of the many she sees running down the halls every morning. She had brought more wood to keep the fire alive.

Marcella takes her time studying the woman in front of the fireplace. She sits straight, her face somewhere else. She has beautiful hair, Tyrell notes to herself; her fair locks escaped the grey cap, landing right onto her warm, tanned face. The woman is older than her, perhaps by a decade. Marcella's eyes wander to the servant's hands, noticing the calluses and roughness that come from hard work. Despite her worn appearance, there is a certain grace and elegance in the way she carries herself—a silent strength that intrigues Marcella. 

''You weren't always a servant, were you?'' Marcella speaks, careful not to startle the woman. She doesn't answer right away, confirming Tyrell's guess—no servant would allow herself such boldness.

''I wasn't, my lady, she agrees, her voice deep. ''Although it is who I am now.''

Marcella's lips curve into something reminiscent of a smile. She watches the woman gather the untouched dinner, whipping the table with a used cloth. The hem of her dress catches Marcella's eye; it's embroidered with simple, cheap threads with such craftsmanship it takes her breath away. 

''Did you make it?'' she can't help but ask, despite the woman's wry face. The servant stops, throwing a stern look at the girl in front of her.

''Princess, I am sorry, but I can't both clean and answer your questions. '' 

Marcella's curiosity gets the best of her as she persists, "Please, just a quick answer. I've never seen such beautiful embroidery before." 

The servant hesitates for a moment, her stern expression softening slightly. "Yes, Your Highness, I did make it," she replies with a hint of pride in her voice before returning to her cleaning duties. 

''What's your name?'' Marcella asks again; her tone is more commanding than questioning.

 ''Catryn.'' 

Marcella's eyes widen with intrigue as she takes in Catryn's response. "Tell me, Catryn, how did you acquire such exceptional skill in embroidery?" 

The servant's eyes flickered with pride for a second. ''I used to work as a seamstress for one noble lady.''

''Why are you here then? Were you bad?'' Marcella's question hangs in the air, filled with curiosity and a touch of judgment. 

The woman scoffs, clearly offended. ''I was one of the best! She thought I had stolen one of her rings and fired me with a stink.'' "But I swear on my life, I would never steal from anyone," Catryn declares with a hint of defiance. ''She found it a few days later; it was under her bed. But nobody likes admitting they were wrong.'' 

Tyrell nods in understanding. Suddenly, the idea appeared in her head. ''Catryn, do you know the Highgarden's cut?'' 

Catryn raises an eyebrow, intrigued by the sudden change in topic. "Yes, I do," she responds cautiously. "Why do you ask?"  

''I want you to consider a proposition," Tyrell says, leaning in closer. "Resaw one of my dresses, so I can see what you can really do. If I like it, the position of the princess's seamstress is yours." 

The woman's eyes sparkled. ''I'll have it done by tomorrow, my lady.''

''Good.'' Tyrell nods, a small smile playing on her lips. "If you impress me, you'll have the opportunity to work on some of the most exquisite garments in all of Westeros." 

-

Just as Catryn promised, the dress was ready in the morning. The gown was dark blue, the shade of the tantalizing sea. Fabric intertwined with ivory silk and pale, poetic pearls. It was exquisite. Once a gift a few sizes too small, it now fits her like a glove. 

The Queen has invited Marcella for afternoon tea today, an event that wasn't as harmless as it sounded. Marcella learned that rather quickly—the court was a complicated, dark place, and she was still an outsider there. Hundreds of things happened every day; small allies were formed and broken. It may have seemed unimportant to an untrained eye, but those things had a big impact on bigger decisions. And while lords and knights made their decisions in big studies filled with arguing, their wives and daughters made them in the gardens and solars.

This is why Marcella was so careful in choosing her attire, jewellery, and even hairstyle. It all conveyed a hidden, deeper meaning to her alliances and showed her intentions. Those rooms were a battlefield; the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, much like hawks, picked her apart. Although Marcella did not mind it, she too would have been cautious about the new lady in court.

As she entered the room, a few gasps filled the air. Marcella smiled to herself; it was just what she intended to do. As the Queen's ladies gathered around her, vying with each other while asking countless questions about the gown, Marcella caught Queen Alicent's gaze. She couldn't make out whether she was angry with her or not; her eyes were dark and calm. 

''My Queen.'' Marcella curtseyed. The ladies fell silent, waiting for the queen's response. 

''Come.'' Alicent gestured at the empty stool beside her, usually secured for her daughter. Marcella smiled and accepted the seat, noticing a few shared glances from the corner of her eye. She still has much work to do, but it was definitely a step on the right path. 

After the audience was over, Marcella took a piece of paper and ink. She intended to write about her successes in court to her father.

-

Her father's response came in a few days—Sir Ywain handled her a properly sealed letter, mindful of curious eyes. There wasn't anything scandalous or improper in those letters, but it was always better to be safe than sorry—Lord Tyrell had rather a liking for stingy descriptions. 

''Thank you,'' Marcella smiled.

Sir Ywain only nodded before returning to standing guard. The library was an unlikable scene for an attack, but he has seen far too many things to exclude such a possibility. He watched as Marcella's face grew sadder with each word, before she finally lifted her head, calling him to come closer.

''Here,'' she pointed at the last paragraph, resting against the chair. ''Read.''

''And lastly,'' started the knight, ''I want to remind you, daughter, of the importance of heirs in the life of the Realm. It is a responsibility that cannot be taken lightly, as your position in court is uncertain until you give birth to an heir. Until then, I shall not read any of your letters so as not to divert your attention. Remember: We will be grateful to flowers only if they have born fruit." The knight looked at the sea in the distance. Ywain was a man crafted in battle, sure. Nevertheless, he was not inhumane. What was this girl? Seventeen summers? A small, lonesome kid. 

''You should return to your chambers, my Lady. It is getting nearer to darkness.''

''Is it already?'' Marcella slowly stood up, her steps light and melancholy. She wanted to add something but quickly changed her disordered mind. She glanced back at the knight, whose stern expression was softened by a hint of concern. With a sigh, she turned and made her way back to the chambers.

Sir Ywain followed her on the way out. He walked a few steps behind, keeping a respectful distance. The weight of his armour seemed to match the heaviness in his heart as he watched the young girl retreat into the darkness of the castle. His job was to protect her, but the only danger she faced was the one he was not fit to fight with—her dear Prince.

-

''What is heard in those walls?'' Marcella asked, finishing her apple.

Catryn was working on yet another new gown for her. Even after a few months, there was still something for her to do, whether it was sewing, embroidering, or patching up the old dresses. Marcella made sure she was free from all of the other duties; now, she had her own room for working and resting. 

Marcella spent a lot of her time here if she wasn't with the Queen or the younger Princess. It was pleasant having someone to talk to, especially seeing that Catryn knew a lot about life in the castle. Gossip was much like a fire; once it started, there was no way of putting it out. 

For the most part, the court told stories about her father; their gold was an especially popular matter here. Much like her husband and his famous trips to the Road of Silk. He wasn't discreet with it either, rubbing his indifference in the devout faces of the King's people. Marcella wasn't naive enough to believe that this would stop with their marriage, but feeling the pitying gazes of older women on her back was getting on her nerves. 

This, and her father's letter made it clear that something had to change. She can't change her husband, and she definitely couldn't change his swaying nature; still, there had to be something.

''Prince Aegon is still seen in the city twice a week,'' Catryn started, not looking up from her work. ''However, there is only one face he frequents. Rumours have been circulating that he has taken a mistress.'' 

Marcella hummed thoughtfully, her mind racing with possibilities. If Prince Aegon had indeed taken a mistress, it could make her position in court even more unstable, just as her father predicted. 

''I want to know her name.''  

-

The loud chatter and laughter got on his nerves today. The air in the tavern was thick, polluted with all kinds of aromas; here, most of the drunken sailors, merchants and workers spent all their hard-earned or not-so coins. It was also quite popular with the knights, a few of which their sleep was found right on their plates. Ywain chuckled. Those people were just the right fit to serve their Prince.

Was he? The order seemed quite clear: find the Prince's whore. He accepted, of course; the little lady wouldn't stop until she got what she wanted, and if this request got in the wrong ears, both of them would lose their heads. It was risky business, but Ywain was no stranger to danger. In Lord Tyrell's words, ''let the child play''. 

''Good day to you, handsome,'' the man in a bright red shirt sang, placing a mug of wine in front of his face. ''Finally remembered about your friend?'' 

''Not now, Rowan.'' Ywain shook his head. ''Sit with me.''

The man called Rowan rolled his eyes before taking a seat across from the knight. He was attractive—the type of beauty you rarely see in men. He was dornish; dark, long hair almost hit his chest, hiding under colourful textiles. He wore bronze: rings, earrings, and necklaces shone on his brown skin even under dim candelabras. If more, they added to his charm. ''So, tell me. What is of such importance that you left your watch?''

Ywain sighed, choosing to ignore the mocking in the man's voice. ''I am looking for some whore named Fox.''

The eyebrows on Rowan's face shot up. ''Our mighty knight looks for a whore?'' he asks. ''Became a woman-lover overnight?'' 

Ywain's face flushed with annoyance, but he maintained his composure. "I have my reasons for seeking her out," he replied curtly. "It is not what you think it is." 

Rowan huffed in amusement. ''It better not be. I wouldn't want to lose my best lover to some whore, would I?'' He watched Ywain's eyes darken with lust as he leaned in closer. "But if you're looking for a good time, I can always introduce you to someone more... experienced." 

''Stop the jesting, Rowan. It's a serious matter.'' Ywain's voice held a hint of frustration as he tried to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand. "I need your help in finding her, not your suggestions for distractions." 

''I'll see what I can do. Finding someone who doesn't want to be found is no easy task." Rowan's face still displayed a mischievous smirk, but his eyes grew serious. ''Don't do anything stupid, Ywain.''

''It seems to be my job these days,'' Ywain shrugged. ''Here,'' he said, placing a few golden coins on the table. ''For wine,'' he said, sliding them towards Rowan. "And for a room." 

Rowan grinned, the playful glimmer in his eyes returning. ''I'll join you in a minute, handsome. Just need to finish up a few things here." He winked at Ywain before turning to attend to his tasks. There were no lords in Flea Bottom. Money was the master here, and money was the butcher.

#got #house of the dragon #house targaryen #house tyrell #hotd #aegon targaryen #hotd aegon #aegon ii x oc #aegon the second #aegon ii #medieval #court #oc #hotd fanfic #original character #fantasy #the red keep #aegon ii targaryen #imagine #game of thrones #originalcharacter #pre asoiaf #the dance of the dragons

[corallapis]

Henry ‘Chips’ Channon: The Diaries (Vol. 1), 1918-38, entry for 8th September 1923

—

Saturday 8th September

Greywalls, Gullane¹

Serge and I after a few hours in Edinburgh in which to have our hair cut arrived here at this delightful Lutyens² golf box on the sea, which Lady Curzon has taken for the summer. We found her alone with her children, very beautiful and loveable.

—

Built in 1901 by Lutyens (vide infra) for Alfred Lyttelton MP (1857-1913), Colonial Secretary from 1903 to 1905.

Edwin Landseer Lutyens (1869-1944) was a leading architect of the time, who had designed the Cenotaph in Whitehall and was in the process of designing government buildings in New Delhi. He was knighted in 1930 and became a member of the Order of Merit in 1942.

#on this day #a century ago #1923 #1920s #channon diaries #chips channon #prince serge obolensky #grace curzon #alfred duggan #hubert duggan #marcella rice #<- grace's kids #edwin lutyens #🕰️

[realjennyrae]

Amicable Acolytes Family Rotation 3:

Grace Anansi went to visit Marcella again for a cute little cafe date. They kept it super romantic and moved the date on to the bluffs after getting some snacks. The two sneaked off to the bluffs in order to get away from paparazzi and Marcella's fans. The two dangled their legs into the pool while flirting and making out.

Sims 4 Rotation 3 || Glimmerbrook Families || Amicable Acolytes

#amicablerotation3 #grace anansi #marcella bailey moon #sims #sims 4 #ts4 #simblr #rotational gameplay

[spaziocomesichiama]

30 dicembre 2022

Spazio come si chiama? promuove la mostra collettiva PECORELLE in collaborazione con spazio mirtilloxgalleriaarrivada e si impegna a dare rilevanza alla sua pecorella preferita: “La pecorella smarrita” di Arabrab Acnirt.

La mostra, inaugurata il 13 dicembre 2022, rimarrà aperta fino al 23 dicembre 2023, per tanti giorni quante sono le pecorelle esposte!

Seguono lə 375 artistə:

Luca Assi

Andrea Barbagallo

Aurora Biancardi

Francesca Bionda

Valentina Bobbo

Antonia Boschetti

Nicolò Camedda

Matteo Capriotti

Giada Carnevale

Pietro Chiarello

Filippo Benedetta Chilelli

Francesca Colombo

Lorenzo D'alba

Emma de Devitiis

Stefano de Paolis

Giovanni Diano

Pietro di Corrado

Luca di Palma

Alessandro di Silvestro

Lorenzo Finotti

Madeleine Fléau

Davide Giuseppe Fracasso

Ludovica Gugliotta

Inmotulus

Tommaso Lencioni

Giorgio Lorefice

Luca Loreti

Chiara Mapelli

Marzia Mazzone

Cecilia Mentasti

Will Merante

Nemo's

Edoardo Paci

Aronne Pleuteri

Cosima Pugliese

Davide Quartucci

Federico Riccobene

Davide Riganti

Camilla Rocchi

Davide Rossi

Valentina Schito

Peng Shuai Paolo

Chiara Sibilla

Matteo Tonell

Twee Whistler

Francesca Vanoli

Filippo Zoli

?

?

?

Arabrab Acnirt

Giulia Loredani

Kamila Bracio

Costanza Merini

Aldo Corboletti

Cures Bito

Edoardo Destro

Matilde Verzanti

Eva Lela

Giulia Serafina

Marco Gottlieb

Beatrice Gorini

Marcella Schifo

Marcello Scafo

Lucrezia Hassan

Goberto Stayn

Michele Giasone

Brittany Spersa

Genniferra Lorensa

Billi Cancelli

Erion Bracio

Oscar Selvaggio

Stefano Falco Re

Rashid Ahmadi

Ben Dover

Rodion Romanovič Raskol'nikov

Brunilde Cospira

Irina Balls

Riano Goslingo

Enrico Calvino

Akane Qurban

Luca Bianchi

Saro Esposito

Biriz Cubiraq

Truo Detectivo

Mark Hawk

Lucrezia Lulashi

Climato Ciangio

Is Reale

Renato Angusto

Ilmana af Klinta

Eos Duemelilad

Giovanna Giorno

Guido Mista

Bruno Bucciarati

Fugo Pannacotta

Denisa Riotta

Giovanni Stella di Gio

Lisa Lisa

Suzie Q

Casca Male

Farnese Farnetica

Giovanna Poi

Luca Abete

Vivianne Giotto

Grace Cosima

Tommaso Nucco

Lucia Libellula

Lucio Lucertola

Luca Lupetto

Elio Femore

Obed Gazzelli

Rambo Sandri

Pierre Buraglio

Noël Dolla

Daniel Dezeuze

Yves-Alain Bois

Greta Pini

Leonardo di Pecora

Anna Rossi

Anna Lee

Roberta Filorosa

Drane Koqeku

Piccolo Amico

Costanza Piatto Rosso

Leze Lezia

Anatolia Carpov

Susanna Decostar

Mimma Pancia

Rosalia Tepelene

Katrina Fantasia

Regina Cane

Johan Van Dyck

Gjelosh Prifti

Loredana Burazzo

Clotilde Purelli

Ross Acco

Alice Triolo

Roberto Ast

Martina Vocado

Gesualdo Mino

Matteo Pecorotti

Lucia Nuro

Loris Tubaio

Pietro Liere

Andrea Computer

Andreea Quilone

Ernesto Viglie

Marco Balto

Lola Vandaia

Maurizioco Modino

Ismaele Very

Ariadna Weber

Griet Orta

Jacques Dubois

Sofia Rognoso

Emma Brahimaj

Emma Scalzone

Carla Dro

Agatha Lettera ai Corinzi

Arnaldo Perugino

Alex Love Car

Osvaldo Scioni

Tomas E. Martinez C.

Daniel Piloni

Marco Giuseppe Ricci

Aaron Ossia

Clara Ovvero

Caterina Carnesecca

Blerta Vernello

Francesca Franceschi

Caterina Tale

Joanna Argolo

Nicholas Harvey

Anne Høngaard

Astrid Schrage

Riccardio Salotto

Omar Iacone

Merino Merini

Alberto Sorrentino

Gennaro Martino

Diana Comasina

Pietra Brenta

Osvaldo Luciani

Pino Obaldi

Emanuele Labirinto

Laura Pimento

Pippi Calzecorte

Carlo Marco

Federico Angolo

Giuseppe Renna

Dennis Freeway

Alina Lorenzin

Giacomo Krispi

Damiano dei Maneskin

Daniele Zuppa

Gurlami Rabaglio

Nicola Lanterna

Mario Vanni

Zaccaria Tuofratello

Marta Cantarelli

Andrea Fragalà

Vittoria Campestre

Simona Duecentoquattro

Marina Sghirripa

Mathias Birri

Eva Allegra

Franco di Ladro

Matilde N. Tista

Agnese Mare Chiaro

Nicola Fossarrelli

Alessandro Medario

Dario Buzzati

Kim Cardascio

Gennaro Candela

Bella Adito

Gigio Costa

Pietro T. Tola

Salvo Salvini Salvuzzi

Vitangelo Moscarda

Anna Rosa

Quantorzo Rovelli

Firbo Malatesta

Marco di Dio

Dida Moscarda

Guido Guidobaldi

Loredana Cuore Dolce

Leonardo Agamben

Giorgio Caffo

Katia Andreani

Evandro Morino

Priscilla Oscilla

Torquato Pirelli

Franca Stella

Romana Tedeschia

Marco Gusati

Anna Vigatore

Rodolfo Caffot Titi

Aronne Cromante

Paola Costa

Ameriga Restucci

Valeria Riva

Severina Salvemini

Francesca Bonami

Giuliana da Empoli

Ilario Tondarini

Bruno Gabbiato

Carlo Accardi

Gion Giorno

Frank Baselitz

Franco Struzione

Shinji Ikari

Frulanzo Arroganzo

Berenice Frac

Piero Birdo

Giacomo Daniele

Daria Godaria

Armando Lomiti

Milo Margelli

Osvaldo Tirimai

Agata Lauretto

Morgana Ercani

Eris Sarrola

Antoine Lubezzi

Gina Strada

Rosalind Merighetti

Margherita Florenzia

Demetria Gagliarda

Albi Liardino

Stefano Universo

Greg De Maio

Rosa Quarzo

Rebecca Zucchero

Marzia Pane

Marzapane

Cristallo Acqua

Marco Zucchero Bergo

Ashley Pi Pi

Sara Frascaro

Gabriele Barbapapa

Asia Triolo

Occhio’s

Dajana Corvetto

Mimmo Nanni

Giuseppe Castagneto

Kate Groovy

Goffredo Bezone

Uinstone Chiesa Tranquilla

Giovanni Lennone

Isacco Nuova Tonnellate

Avladar Avladar

Giovanni Berrimore

Melania Marrone

Vittoria Dietrocarne

Flatnind pierici

Sarto Lesto

Ettore de La Siepe

Dozia Gatto

Susy Za Arep

Anacleto Vis a Vis

Claudia Francesca

Giorgia Panigatti

Una persona

?

?

Carmine Curmini

Mirko Nebbia

Paulo Dybala

Ipona Cosimi

Giovanni Famoso

Alice Febe Lu

Freeda Cavallo

Martina Drip

Giorgio Costanza

Federico di Marco

Francesca Ricotta

Anita Pellizza

Alessia Mackenzie

Benedetta Rolesco

Matilda Curino

Elena Stanza

Alessia Casablanca

Luca Gianotti

Lorenzo Berrati

Enrico Meta

Claudio Cicciacalda

Salvo Servizio

Bruno Funari

Davide Gallo

Camilla Lilla

Martina vergesi

Mattia Vaivia

Rosa Culetto

Viola Respiro

Stefania stanza

Resta in Pace

Drake Kadri

Pasquale Porrari

Fabrizio Fine

Carla Schievane

Elio Nato Vivo

Michael Millais

Tua Madre_

Enne Enrepo

Harris Farts

Enrico Riccobene

Pietro Parco

Arancio Sole Chiaro

Terza in Comodo

Frank il Giardino

Manca Poco

Samantha Sole

Martino Picardi

Mira Sema

Pasquale Pasqualon

Ginestra Tonini

Nicole Vaiani

Karim al-Rahmān

Isotta Mbabazi

Glenda Golubev

Giulia Roncali

Michael Scott

Dwight Schrute

Jim Halpert

Andy Bernard

Kevin Malone

Creed Bratton

Stefano Ruggero

Moses Okello

Antonella Ottaviani

Erika Milelli

Alessia Rizza

Michela Lepore

Giovanni Mucciacca

Pietro Pacciani

Maggiori informazioni sulla piattaforma Instagram: @spazio_come_si_chiama, @spazio.mirtillo, @arrivada e @pecorella_smarritaa.

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Love Me Bitterly [Chapter Three] Fate [Adam]

A/n: This is a shorter chapter with unfortunately no Adam, but it's setting up some things. Also, the song Marcella is singing here is 'The Fighter' by In This Moment. Please enjoy.

Warning(s): Foreshadowing, OC, Adam being Adam (briefly), sexual jokes, short chapter.

Tag list: @lala-1516

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

No Minors Allowed!!

The soft click of footsteps filled the stairwell as Marcella ascended to the library. Her work uniform hugged her body like a warm blanket, feeling stifling in the heat of the day. Once she reached the top, she took in a deep uneasy breath and walked to her desk; the scent of aged paper and weathered leather binds permeated the air.

It was peaceful, but Marcella would rather be in the field. Earth was a magical and wondrous place if one knew where to look. Yes, her job could be quite irritating if an evil-hearted person began to abuse their power, but most days it was serene. Her wanderlust knew no bounds. 

Awake and restless, she sauntered over to the drop-off box and began to sort through the few books that were returned. There weren't many, but Marcella figured that it would be better to get her work done than wait. She would go insane if she sat down now. 

As she registered the returns in a thick organized book by her desk, she sang, hearing her low husky voice echo off the walls.

“I will fall and rise above. And in your hate I find love. ‘Cause I'm a survivor. Yeah, I am a fighter.” 

Humans had such captivating lyrics. They sang of heartache, addiction, and death; all things angels never experienced. She reckoned some Virtuous remembered the experiences of their human lives, but none of them spoke about it. Don't dwell on the past. 

Marcella hummed the haunting tune as she flew to the bridge above and put the books in their designated areas. Once she was done, she used her wings to give herself a slight boost and stood on the railing. If Imelda caught her, she would be in a world of trouble. She stared down at the wooden floor cast in an array of vivid colors from the stained window overhead, then leaped off the edge, spreading her wings. 

“I will not hide my face. I will not fall from grace. I'll walk into the fire baby,” she sang as she slowly floated toward the ground. 

The heels of her boots gently clacked as she landed; a wide smile graced her face. Perhaps the artists of Earth knew their subjects well, inspired and awed by bored angels who were caught descending from Heaven, their voices carried by the wind.

Marcella sighed and walked over to her desk. Her fun was done. As she sat down, she noticed something that she must have overlooked earlier. It was a folded note with a yellow flower resting on it. Upon further investigation, she realized the flower was a Creeping cinquefoil, a common weed. 

She was grateful for the gesture, despite the misunderstanding. If not for her aunt and her love of flowers, she wouldn't have known the difference. 

The note, however, had her befuddled.

For your lame flower thing. 

Marcella raised a brow. What did that mean? Flower thing. Then it hit her like a bucket of ice water, or a cup of iced coffee. Adam. She paled. Was he the one sending her the lewd notes? 

–

Around the afternoon, the heat of the day grew warmer. Marcella opted to take her lunch break in the shade of a light yellow umbrella at Sweetly, a little café within walking distance of the historical library. 

To join her, she called up her gossip-loving coworker, Rilea, who was thankfully not in the field today. Marcella ordered a green tea and a salad with two chocolate chip cookies to go as she waited.

“I'm here,” Rilea announced as she hurried to the patio table from the street. She greeted Marcella with a smile. 

“I'm glad you could make it,” the blonde stated. 

Rilea was too. She had a lot of business at headquarters to attend to, but thankfully she saved her break. Imelda was urging her to take it. Giving her order to a waiter, she waited until her dessert was brought to the table before she brought up the matter at hand.

“You sounded urgent on the phone. Are you OK?” 

Marcella opted not to beat around the bush. 

“Is Adam my admirer?”

“Why would you think that?” Rilea asked. She tried to hide a smile. 

Was she serious? Marcella took an uneasy breath. 

“I had a run-in with him yesterday - literally - and I made mention of a hobby I currently got into. This morning I found a flower and another note on my desk.”

Rilea squeaked. Her wings rose in excitement. 

“That's so romantic.” 

No, it wasn't. 

“Have you met Adam?” Marcella asked, narrowing her eyes. 

“No, but Nera said he's a bad boy who loves music. That's right up your alley,” Rilea explained. 

As much as she wanted to disagree, she was right. Marcella did like music and bad boys - Azrael was her crush forever - but Adam was on another level. 

“It wouldn't work. Trust me.”

Rilea frowned. 

“You don't know that. It's not fair to write him off without giving him a chance.”

The blonde's wings sank. Did she have to? She was right, but it seemed like such a waste of effort. 

“But he's so full of himself,” Marcella whined. 

“You could be full of him too,” Rilea pointed out. 

The blonde nearly choked. Did she seriously just imply that Marcella should have sex with him?

“I'm gonna ignore that you said that.” She took a drink of her tea and opted to change the topic of the conversation. “How is work?”

“Hectic,” Rilea admitted. Her smile faded. “But you know how it is before the festival.” 

Festival. Was she referring to the Celebration of Lights?

“Is it already that time?” Marcella asked.

Rilea shook her head. 

The festival takes place every year in Seraphim Square, a celebration to honor the Seraphim who govern Heaven. It was a fun event. 

“Well, that's something to look forward to.”

Rilea agreed, grinning again. 

“Perhaps Adam will go with you.”

Marcella narrowed her eyes. There was no way she was going to attend the festival with Adam. To be honest, she was going to avoid him at all costs. 

If I can manage it. 

Unbeknownst to her, he had already pulled the strings that would again bring them together.

#hazbin hotel fanfiction #adam x oc #hazbin hotel fandom #adam hazbin hotel #oc

[atomic--peach]

Her Grace's Handmaid Pt.9

(Cersei Lannister x Fem Reader x Sandor Clegane SMUT: Breeding Kink, Semi-public sex)

AO3 VERSION: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48276340

You had no idea when your visit to the North took such a grim turn, but you had a sneaking suspicion it started when the queen began to task you with more and more of her children's upkeep.

"Consider it practice for your own" she assured you as she took up her cloak one evening.

You knew better than to ask where she was going, even as a Lady that was beyond your station.

Between Joffery battling with Rob Stark, Tommen's near constant skinned knees, and Marcella's whining of boredom, you found yourself overwhelmed with the task. It was an all day chore and despite it being impressed upon you that you were expected to get pregnant quickly, you could find very little time for it.

"Need some company?" you looked up from monitoring Tommen and found Lady Stark standing over you.

"Oh, please." You breathed a sigh of relief.

"You know" Lady Stark looked over her shoulder. "Sometimes it helps if you let them hurt themselves just a little bit."

"Really?"

"That's the only way some children learn" she shrugged. "Take my Arya for example. It doesn't matter how many times you tell her something, if she doesn't learn the hard way she won't learn at all. Here, watch-" she motioned to Tommen who was about to curiously touch a stinging nettle for what must have been the 10th time that day.

"Tom-"

"No, no." Lady Stark stopped you, "let him learn on his own"

You held your breath as the 5 year old wrapped a pudgy hand around the nettle leaves and instantly cried out, more out of fear than pain.

"Oh dear" you scooped him up and placed him on you lap to soothe him. "There, there little prince. You're alright. I told you not to play with the nettles, darling."

Tommen sobbed briefly into your shoulder until he caught his breath and sniffed pitifully.

"There now," Lady Stark caressed his light blonde curls, "I bet you won't play with nettles again, isn't that right?"

The tot nodded ruefully and slipped off your lap to return to his carved toy soldiers.

Catelyn smiled approvingly before glancing over your shoulder and nudging you with her shoe, "You're being watched, my dear."

You glanced behind you to find your husband looming half in the shadows of the stables, eyeing you with an unreadable expression.

"Go on. I'll watch him for a bit" Catelyn goaded you with a mischievous smile.

"Oh, I couldn't do that. You shouldn't have-"

"Go." Catelyn pushed again. "I was a newlywed once. Just....make it quick"

You blushed and glanced around before slipping into the stables, searching for Sandor around each corner until you found him in an empty stall in the back.

"Husband" you greeted Sandor expectantly.

"Wife" he nodded with a smirk.

"A quickie in the hay? What are we teenagers?" you joked, pressing yourself up against him firmly, one hand wandering to the laces of his trousers. "I only have a few minutes, Lady Stark is manning my post"

You gasped as two large hands pressed into your waists with much more care than they had the first time you found yourself into a similar position.

"I can work with that." Sandor assured you, setting you on the edge of the stall divider, your back pressed against a beam while your ass balanced on the edge.

You quickly raised your skirts as he fumbled with his own clothes between kissing mouths and groping hands.

There was something exciting about it, you thought as your husband pushed into you with little resistance. The chance of someone, anyone, walking in. The knowledge that you'd have to walk back out of here trying to seem as casual as possible, as if you hadn't just been fucked within an inch of your life and The Hound's cum wasn't dripping down your thighs.

"Fuck, Sandor. A little higher" you instructed him between pants, muffling your moans into the leather of his jerkin when his length began to fuck into you at the best possible angle.

Sandor found it easier to keep quiet during sex, but his fingers weaved themselves through your hair and gripped it tightly. Ensuring you'd have to at least try to re do it when you were done.

"Don't stop," you begged him, crossing your ankles around his hips to pull him closer "so close, just keep going"

Your husband, ever eager to please you, obeyed and picked up the pace. The hand on your hip keeping you balanced gripped into your flesh hard and you knew he wouldn't last much longer.

You pushed a hand between the two of you, finding your clit with ease and rubbing fiercely with two fingers to hurry you both along. Sandor finished first, pulling you tightly to his chest and muffling himself in your neck as you felt the heat of his seed fill you.

Not one to be left behind, you kept your legs locked around him firmly and let your cunt milk him dry as waves of pleasure hit you like a ton of bricks. Leaning against the beam behind you with your husband half collapsed on your shoulder, you both took a moment to catch your breath before climbing down and trying to make yourselves look presentable.

"Fuck, my hair" you laughed, pulling out stray bits of straw and opting to just take it all down and wrap in back into a bun instead. "Way to be subtle."

"Fuck you, you loved it" Sandor shot back, pulling you in for a brief kiss, "We should go before we're missed"

"I know, I-"

You never finished your sentence.

A bloodcurdling scream peirced the air and set the entire court yard into action.

"Oh Gods, the children!" The little prince and princess were the first thing on your mind as you dashed out of the stables, kicking up straw and dust behind you.

Tommen was with Marcella and after a quick once over, you found neither of them were hurt.

"Princess, where is the Lady Catelyn?" You asked the 10 year old who had started to cry.

"She- she went to-to find..." The princess struggled to get the words out between fearful sobs.

"Shshsh" you caressed her rosey face gently and hugged her and Tommen to you, "It's okay, stay close to me."

Sandor located Joffrey quickly enough and brought him to join his siblings despite his princely objections.

"Sandor, what's happening?"

"I don't know, someone got hurt that's all I can make sense of" his hand sat on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at any given moment.

A mob of at least 10 men came barreling through the courtyard and you watched as the Winterfell Maester rushed past you with a look of grim dread spreadinh across his aged face.

The whispers around you began to take on more and more detail.

Stark boy

Climbing

Fall

Dead

"Oh Gods" you gripped the children as the mob came back, slowly toting a cot on their shoulders that bore the scant body of a boy no more than 10. "Children, don't look. Don't"

Catelyn Stark, who the whispers said found the boy at the base of an unused tower, followed the procession supported by her eldest boy and the Winterfell ward, Theon Greyjoy.

Her body was ghostly white and nearly limp as her wails echoed through the yard and raised the hairs on your neck.

"That poor, poor woman" you breathed solemnly. "Come children, we should find your mother."

Cersei, for some reason or another, proved strangely hard to track down. When you did find her, she looked oddly tense.

"Your grace," you breathed, "There's been a terrible accident"

You recounted the scene in the courtyard, which the queen received with an almost expressionless face.

"How dreadful" she breathed, "simply awful. That poor boy."

She reached out to put her hand on yourself with a kind smile, "You've been through quite an ordeal. I'll send the children to their Septa, you should go rest. You look tense."

You began to object, assuring her you were perfectly fine, just a little shaken. But she insisted firmly that you were tired and should rest.

-----------

The rest of the visit was frightfully grim, and insanely boring.

In light of Bran Stark's injuries, all events planned by the king had been canceled. Instead everyone waited around with bated breath, each day waiting to hear if the little lord made it through the night.

"I miss the south" you finally said one night, tucked under Sandor's arm

"Go to sleep"

"I can't"

"Why not?"

You didn't have an answer. With a frustrated grumble, your husband pulled you closer, practically on top of you.

"We're leaving in 2 days. You can make it, I promise."

"You don't know that" you smiled a little, teasing him, "This Northern air may kill me"

"Oh, because the air in King's Landing is such an improvement."

"It's familiar"

"Hm" Sandor pressed a kiss to your temple before rolling over, "Go to bed before I fuck you to sleep"

"Promise?" You scoffed, leaning over his shoulder and leaving a trail of kisses up to his ear. "Seriously though, I do have a question."

"Oh for fucks sake."

"It's important" you insisted, "When we get back, the queen is going out of her way to make me a member of her court. She's showing me immense favor."

"And?"

"And..." you breathed, "I have a feeling she's going to want things to go back to the way they were....and I need to know if you're okay with that."

Sandor mumbled under his breath but sat up to face you. "Does that matter?"

"Of course it does." You scoffed, "listen I know neither of us intended to get married, but you are my husband. And I like that you are my husband. And if this is going to make you uncomfortable, then I need to know so I can find a way out of it."

Sandor stared at you a moment, considering this. It hadn't really occurred to him that he'd have any say in the situation.

"Well, you've come this far" he breathed, pulling you against him, "if fucking the queen makes life easier for the both of us, then hell, fuck the queen"

"Really?"

"Shit, if it did me any good, I'd fuck her too." Sandor chuckled, "but if I see that cunt of a brother of hers getting too friendly, I'll throw his ass from a tower"

#sandor clegane smut #sandor clegane imagine #sandor clegane x reader #cersei lannister x reader #game of throne fanfiction #asoiaf fanfic #Her Grace's Handmaiden