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audreyscribes · 3 months

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Ω PJO DEMIGOD HEADCANONS: ☀ APOLLO: God of Archery, Art, Music, & Poetry, Prophecy, Light & Sun, Healing & Plagues, Truth 🎶

author's note: I had a sudden idea about writing some headcanons Camp Halfblood demigods being claimed and what it's like for each respective god and cabin, followed by a small blurb afterwards. Thank you for reading and please like and reblog! The order is not in order of the cabin numbers. [PJO DEMIGOD HEADCANONS MASTERLIST]

When you get claimed, you're graced with a light haloing over you. It's so bright yet soft. You also feel warm but you somehow feel like its a warm hug and its Apollo secretly giving you a hug.

The Apollo cabin welcomes you happily and they all gather around, singing you a welcome song. Some of them break out into an Acapella, while some whip out their instruments out of thin air. You find yourself at least humming to the song and maybe even singing along, the words just coming to you naturally.

You’re shown the sleeping quarters that are nice and warm, and when you press your nose against them, you can smell the sun on them.

You’re also shown the ropes of the place, but most importantly where they treat the sick and injured. As children of Apollo, your natural gifts are used almost daily. If you’re not that hyped about seeing blood or the like, you’re moved away from the rotation and help out with other things: changing sheets, disinfecting, checking stock and getting stock, and so forth.

You’re still required to learn how to do First Aid though. Even if your godly parent is the god of Healing, you’re still going to have to learn how to do the mundane medical methods. Better learn how to do proper CPR just in case. Sure, you could heal any damages but it's better not let it happen anyway.

You just have candy in your pockets. You might think its odd but when you see a small camper hurt their knee and one of your siblings whip out a lollipop after patching it up, you realise you’re not just there to soothe physical wounds.

Plus, you have candy. What’s not to love?

Though, speaking of Candy, you didn’t know you had to help out in sorting candy and inspecting it. Especially any red candy or specific dyes used in them. You learn immediately that once ago, there was a period of time that the campers acted very intensely, and after an intense lava wall incident and an almost burnt down pegasus stall, it was discovered that some people had consumed certain candies containing Red dye 40 and was affecting the ADHD.

The Apollo cabin is the place to be for entertainment. There’s constantly music and art being produced. There are even beat poetry nights.

So many rap battles.

The Apollo cabin often has collaborative efforts with the Hephatesus Athena,Dionysus cabin. There’s always some big project happening and it’s always a treat.

Hamilition. Cats. Hadestown. Heathers. Highschool Musical- all the broadway shows and musicals you can think of, the Apollo cabin have it down pat. Along with the Dionysus cabin, you just perform and break out in song. Eventually Mr. D and Chiron let you guys perform actual broadway musicals or general theatre because there were too many impromptu moments that broke through the entire camp. No one has recovered from the D's (Mr. D, the Dionysus, and Demeter cabin) and the Giant Strawberry incident.

When you get claimed, light envelops you with a soft mysterious song playing. It was warm and you swore you could imagine arms hugging you lovingly. You’d imagine Apollo used the claim to at least give his children a hug. You hugged back and you felt the faintest squeeze back. Before you could dwell on it later, the light disappears leaving a faint glow on your skin.

The song you had heard had also drifted off as well, but it had spoken to your soul. Like it had been chosen for you. You saw a bunch of other campers stand around and begin going into verse, a choir of campers singing a song before you realized it was the same song from before. More and more people began to join in, singing in acapella, instruments being played, and people clapping along for the beat. You watched in excitement and you felt their music resonate with you, it went through your body, up your throat and before you knew it, you were singing along, leading it.

When the song came to an end, the singers cheered and clapped before you saw a boy with curly blonde hair step up, giving you a beaming smile. You thought he looked like a golden retriever.

“Hi! You definitely have the chords of a child of Apollo” he complimented, holding out his hand. You took his hand as you shook, “My name is Will Solace, and I’m the cabin leader of Cabin 7. Welcome to the Apollo cabin!”

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wroteclassicaly · 1 year

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Warnings: Language, smut, NSFW goodness, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, & Steve comes in his pants.

A/N: Well, this wouldn’t leave me alone, the dash was horny for Steve too, and my mind spiraled. *Eddie Munson voice* @pastel-pillows & @dr-aculaaa — this is for you! ;-)

You couldn’t stop the way your legs began to shake, calves tense, thighs jiggling from the jostle you accompanied yourself with, toes of your sneakers dipped into the green carpeting and digging in, only to bounce seconds later. You swear you can hear your heartbeat rushing in your ears, bursting the drums, echoing your sinful sentiments, a choir of nasty little devils whispering encouragement into your ears, their sharp teeth sucking at your lobe. It all started with watching Steve rearrange his trunk this morning before you rode with him to work at the store. He’d pulled out his nail slayed weapon, twirling it like it weighed nothing and he did it for a living. You went doe eyed, becoming dizzy and dumb.

Robin had rolled her eyes, following shortly behind for her own ride. “So glad I’m not straight.” She was forever onto you.

And the duration towards Family Video wasn’t any better. With the ping pong weather of the Midwest, you’d all had your windows down and it kept blowing Steve’s unruly mane, resulting in crunching leather, twisting upon by his clenched fingers as they shifted to raise, his wrist tendons flexing beneath a rolled Henley, his digits pushing back the tendrils that had mounted his forehead. With a slow morning, it gave you three some time to unwrap new snacks to restock the front counter with. Only… that packing tape was always tough and you left the letter opener in the back (you could never find it, really), so Steve came to the rescue. He’d fetched his keys from the employee lockers, bringing them into the front with one announcement: the metal ring swinging along his defined pointer finger. With a freshly manicured nail bed and a calloused padding around the digit’s tip, you were all but salivating.

Praying made everything worse for your state, and you’d resigned to indulging in every waking fantasy as you watched Steve roll his sleeves up until they crested over his forearms and rested around his elbows, giving you VIP access to each and every tendon, vein, freckle, mole, and muscle that the limbs possessed, complete with his signature watch wrapped around his left wrist. Robin had backed away and busied herself further towards the front, not wanting to be smothered by your increasingly unstable pheromones. You thought that maybe asking Steve for help instead of watching him grit his pearly whites or lick his tongue out over that dark stubble beginning to work its way into his flesh, circling his mouth in the most luscious ways, all because the tape was being stubborn against his keys — wasn’t a smart choice. He had refused with a smile, leaning over the cardboard and giving you a direct eyeline down the collar of his shirt, curly chest hair peeking back at you. On your way around the counter after nearly collapsing, Robin had poked her finger into her mouth and mimicked a gag, rolling her eyes at your middle finger return.

And that leads you to your current continued predicament, the slutty saga trotting along. Steve makes a noise of eager mirth and that goofy grin of triumph washes over his features, his fingers tucking into the packaging and flipping the lids, curling.

Curling…

You choke on your own spit, a deep breath coming out choppy. You immediately warm with embarrassment and maneuver your way through the stale air towards the restrooms. You’re barely inside a stall before Steve comes in behind you, halfway in the doorway, hand tightened knuckle-white around the silver handle, little denim jeans strapped to his thick thigh that is raised slightly, his Nike sneaker toe pointed into the floor to hold his place. You watch his arm prop, his brows cinch in confusion.

“Honey? Everything alright?”

If you speak it’ll all vomit out in a pornographic moan, so you can merely shake your head. Steve immediately reacts and joins your proximity, nearly caging your airspace in, his cologne draping around you like a fucking winter coat. Your eyelids flutter closed, your body stepping back, then in. This is ridiculous. It’s not like you two haven’t fooled around before, on nights where the action was slow and the adrenaline ran high.

He always said you could talk to him, ask him for and about — anything. It’s a comical slow motion when his hand raises, veins defined and running alongside his creamy skin that will tan in the coming Spring, it never fails to. He seems to feed off of your look, patience his new virtue. You permit his thumbpad to stroke a shred of hair to tuck it behind your ear, causing your nipples to harden in your bra’s confines.

“Steve…” And his breath hitches, because even underneath the sickly fluorescent lighting he can see your dilated pupils.

“Oh.” His own voice has gone rasp, scattered. But there’s a battering jealousy that gnaws at his abdomen, fanning its green flames into his esophagus. He could choke on the bile that someone else might have caused your pent up responses.

It’s like he knows what you’re going to say before you do, but he encourages, stroking ever so softly along your cheekbone now. “What do you need?”

You mewl and sway into him, chests brushing, lips parched when they peel apart. You can practically taste his cinnamon breath spray on your tongue. “Need to touch myself.” You settle for a more hands off approach, not wanting to push, especially at work and with your shared best-friend thirty feet away.

Steve, however, he surprises you. He purses his plush lips into a plop, sclera glazed over with honey hot arousal. “Yeah? You think I can watch you do it? It’s been so long since you’ve let me see you between your legs, baby.”

It didn’t matter anymore if you were thinking about someone else, because you’re going to be thinking of him now — only, just. He wants to make sure.

You’re almost warning him, but when your jaw drops and your tongue is present, his thumb glides along your skin and presses inside and over the wet muscle. Steve has never seen you react so strongly, your left hand reaching out and fisting into his shirt, bunching it and yanking him into the stall with you, kicking it shut, his back falling upon the cool, doodle littered metal. He hisses, a fuck being spat into the air. You’re trembling into your ragged breathing, vest rippling with the waves of your heaving breasts. You look at him from beneath your lashes, fluttering, sucking with purpose on his thumb.

His cock swells instantly, straining uncomfortably against the zipper of his light blue Levi’s. It hits him then, what you have wanted. Or rather, who. He feels a possessive pull that’s stronger than gravity, polluting every bit of air that enters his lungs. His arm wraps around your lower back and his forearm jostles a chill down your spine.

You make room and claw your vest off, letting the cheap polyester hit the tile floor, helping yourself to his arm around you, bending to having his palm splay along your tailbone, caressing, moving upwards seconds later. Your hand untangles from the now wrinkled fabric of his shirt and moves to your jeans, pushing and twisting, getting them to a place where they drift down your hips and pool around your knees. Your panties are next, so sticky and hot between your thighs that it strings from you to glistening fabric, Steve’s mouth watering.

“Dammit, honey. How long have you been like this for?”

You’re panting, whimpering, his light kneading in your tense muscles, finding him eventually cupping your neck with a heavy and large palm, fingers tickling your jugular. Your pulse is thumping sporadically beneath his touch, he notes with fascination.

“All day.” You reveal. “Because of you and these.” You say full out, tongue lolling out and licking another one of his fingers into your mouth — salty and all Steve.

Those carmel colored brows, they rise into a question. You nod once more. “Please?”

Steve dips in, drops his wrist to nudge the meat of your thighs further apart, and he swipes a finger through the soaked seam of you, collecting what he can, rubbing along the rim of muscle that keeps your beautiful inside from him — pushing it when you begin to shake and plead. Your whispering praises and thank yous, ready to worship at the temple of Steve Harrington. He adds a third finger to your mouth and thrusts, wiggling them along the wetness, marveling at how it pools in the creases where your lips meet your cheeks.

“Like that?” He draws out a gruff groan, tossed about by the electric force and your perfect lips closing around his fingers, sucking him like it’s his dick and the world is about to end.

You give him that look, and that familiar adrenaline finds its way to the surface and screams, taking you and Steve within its clutches. He’s smirking at your mumbling around him, a pathetic but purely diabolical sight. He’s so hard it hurts to move, knees bumping yours, and your body pliant and fucking yourself on his hand, your lips spread apart and scattering your cream across his palm each time you push back down against him, arching to help nudge his fingers into a deeper crook. You grip his wrist bone and tap, tracing those veins, and you finalize by digging your nails into his forearm. He retaliates and holds on the back of your tongue, making you sputter and choke, spit dribbling out and squishing around his knuckles.

“Yeah, gag on it. Fuck, you’re about to cum already, do you feel it?”

And you do come, seconds later, licking and biting at Steve’s fingers, squeezing his arm and practically humping his hand until it subsides. Your head is spinning when you touch back to planet earth, Steve shaking and folding in on you, his sticky fingers falling from your pussy, the softest noise coming out of his throat and barreling past his lips.

“Holy shit…” you look right at his crotch in time to see the denim darken with his load.

He finds your neck and kisses, returning cute and shyly, his own hand leaving your mouth, pruned and sated.

“I can’t believe I just got off in my pants. Christ, honey. You’re fucking ridiculous today.”

Steve-speak. All dopey and cheesy, uncaring that he busted like a horny teenager. But you didn’t care either, so he didn’t feel the need to be ashamed.

Whilst he helps you readjust your clothing, a shrill voice sounds from the other side of the room.

“You better wash your hands,” Robin yells.

You’re sheepish, wincing, but Steve… he winks at you and slides his still—wet fingers into his mouth, making a nice show of cleaning them, looking proud once he finishes, responding with a vocal, “They’re clean, doofus.” And he leans in towards you, an afterthought, your noses brushing, as he whispers lowly, “Just gotta run home and change my pants now.”

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bits-and-babs · 11 months

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𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 — 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 ‘𝐒𝐎𝐀𝐏’ 𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐇

↳ summary: "Were you just masturbating?" - Returning from a shower after a gruelling midnight run, you catch Johnny red handed...

↳ pairing: SASRecruit!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader

↳ [1k] content: – Set during SAS Recruitment Training, so younger Soap! Soap caught masturbating, depreciation, vague allusions to a bit of a power play, spitting, handjob. Something light and silly for me to get used to writing for John <3

soap masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

You towel dry your hair roughly with a hand towel, exhaling heavily as you pace down the corridor back to the barracks. A shower had never felt so damn good, the Staff finally releasing you from what could only be described as torture. A run in the middle of the night with a 55lb bergen strapped to your back. Hours of trekking up the mountains in the belting rain.

When you’d finally hobbled back into camp, feet almost numb, you’d noted the clock on the wall reading as 03:00. Needless to say, you could have cried when you entered the shower. In fact, you’d been so relieved by the steaming hot water running over your skin that you stayed behind when Johnny shouted an offer to walk back with you over the stall.

Just five more minutes.

Now you were excited to crawl into bed. The sun was coming up outside, an orange tinge to the sky signalling for the birds to begin their choir. Twisting the door handle to your shared bunk with Johnny, you pause at the resistance that meets you, the door stopping in place despite pushing it forward.

Peering around the door, you note the bundle of khaki fabric strewn haphazardly in the middle of the floor– a standard-issue army t-shirt. One you certainly hadn’t abandoned on the floor when you left for the run.

“Johnny– I’m getting tired of you leaving your shit arou–…”

One quick glance towards Johnny’s bunk has you freezing in place. He’s sat up in bed, the sheet pulled over his body. If it weren’t for the flush on his cheeks, the pinch of his brows and his hands stuffed under the covers, you’d never have figured it out… But–

“Were you just masturbating?” It escapes you before you can swallow the intrusive question, blurted out without thinking. Johnny lets out a painfully awful scoff, rolling his eyes theatrically.

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Johnny speaks, and his voice is strained. His eyebrows pull up when he notes the smirk on your lips, a panicked expression playing on his face. “N-Naw, I wasn’t doin’ anythin’!”

“Mhmm-hm,” you smirk, bending down to grab the t-shirt at your feet. You can feel the Scotsman’s eyes burn a hole into you as you rise, carefully folding his shirt once, twice. Then, approaching the bottom of his bunk, you check the creases; the fabric doubled into a perfect square.

“What’re you doin’, lass?” he questions, watching cautiously as you neatly lay the perfectly folded clothing on the mattress where his feet are. You shrug innocently, smoothing your palm over the material.

“Nothing. Why’re you acting like this? I thought you weren’t up to anything?” You muse, fixing him with a pointed look as you drag your hand over the shape of his shin. Johnny looks like he’s swallowed his tongue, wide-eyed with crimson cheeks.

“N-Nope!” The stutter catches you both off guard, and you can’t help the grin that stretches across your lips. You and Johnny had done thirty-four-hour stints in the mock interrogation, suffered stress positions and headphones playing white noise and babies screaming until your ears buzzed, yet somehow the Scotsman looked far more terrified now.

“Then you won’t mind if I pull back the covers, would you, Johnny?” You murmur, hand creeping further up his body. You pass his knee, fingertips skirting the length of his thigh. In turn, he lets out a shuddering breath, chest lurching with a sudden intake of breath.

“F-Fuck,” he whispers, looking up at you with wide eyes, “Fuck- I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon….”

“Don’t stop on my account,” you murmur, maintaining eye contact. His pupils swallow the bright blue of his irises, lips parting when you arch your brow in question. You gonna carry on?

Johnny’s hand moves under the covers, dragging the length of his cock as he groans through gritted teeth. His eyelids flutter, watching you as your hand walks two fingers up the stretch of his chest. He looks so pretty like this, you think, flushed and nervous. Swelling with pride, you note that even the Staff hadn’t been able to make him this flustered.

Riding this high, urged on by your greed, you let go of any inhibition.

“Do you think of me?” You murmur, taking ahold of Johnny’s chin. His eyes nearly pop out of his skull at such an invasive question, his lips pursing when you squeeze his cheeks together.

“Y-Yea,” he admits, his cheeks warming beneath your fingertips. The embarrassment does little to stop him, however, fisting his cock even quicker beneath the bedsheets. “Ssso bonneh, lass-“

Chuckling at how he slurs his words, you pinch his cheeks harder before releasing him. Poor Johnny chokes out a groan, dragging his fist over the length of his cock. You jut out your bottom lip, feigning pity as you glance down at the movement beneath the covers.

“You need help? You seem to be struggling.”

“Hoh, Steamin’ Hell…” Johnny’s eyes roll back into his skull as he chokes on his breath, “Fuck yeah-“

“Yeah?” You muse, tone mocking as you hold your hand before his face, “Help me out then.”

It’s like unlocking a whole different side of him. The usually argumentative, jovial John MacTavish instantly follows your order. He spits into your palm, gazing up at you and murmuring thanks over and over again. He doesn’t even argue when you pull back the duvet, he just groans when the fabric drags over the head of his sensitive cock.

“Mhmm-“ you hum softly, casting your eyes over his throbbing cock as it lays against his abdomen, “You gonna be quiet for me?”

You don’t even give him a moment to answer, taking up his dick and running your slick palm down the length of it. The devastating moan rattles Johnny’s lungs, his back arching from the wall when you brush the pad of your thumb over the weeping head to smear precum over the sensitive tip.

“Yeah,” you smirk, beginning to jerk him off slowly, “That’s what I thought. You always were a gobby one, MacTavish.”

“Hah-… Ah-fuck! I’m sorry-“ he chokes out, jaw slack.

“Yeah, you will be.”

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random-brushstrokes · 23 days

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Ferdinand Brütt - Choir stalls in Mainz Cathedral (1903)

#Ferdinand Brütt #german art #interior #1900s

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whovianofmidgard · 29 days

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Day 4 – Caranthir – Childhood, Appearance

For @feanorianweek You can also read on AO3

Life in Valinor for someone like Caranthir was an overwhelming existence. His dark eyes never quite got used to the brightness of Laurelin, like most babes usually did after some months. He ran away so fast on his short legs from the clanging of forges and choirs singing, the sounds too loud for his sensitive ears. He screamed and cried when certain fabrics and textures touched his skin, blotchy red patches and rashes forming inexplicably after an hour of wearing new clothes.

Caranthir didn’t like going outside. He especially didn’t like going out for chores. However, Ammë and Atar were busy with their work, and Maglor and Celegorm had their studies, so he was left in Maedhros’ care while he did chores that needed to be done. Like shopping.

Caranthir trotted after his eldest brother, small hand clutching large hand, as they waded through the noisy market. He was mostly being guided by Maedhros, for the elfling was left half-blind from the mid-flowering light of Laurelin. Caranthir alternated between staring down at his feet, squinting with tears obscuring his sight, or just simply closing his eyes.

Maedhros stopped by some vegetable stall, leaving Caranthir to hold on to him and be bored. The swish of fabric caught the edge of his sight, a rich dark purple in colour, yet so thin it let light peek through its weave. Letting go of his brother’s hand, he went closer to the textile stall curiously. He slid his little fingers through the dark fabric, unfortunately it was itchy and burning, but he lifted it over his head.

Caranthir could perfectly see right through it, he could see the market, the elves milling about, everything. The only difference the fabric made was that the light and colours were muted. And most importantly, it didn’t bother his eyes.

“Nelyo, Nelyo!” he bounded over to his brother, purple textile still on his head. “Look, Nelyo! I can see and my eyes don’t hurt!”

Used to his little brothers’ oddities, the strange image Caranthir made didn’t even phase him.

“You can see everything?”

“Uh-huh,” Caranthir nodded.

“And there is no pain at all?”

“Nuh-uh,” Caranthir shook his head. “Well, the fabric is itchy.”

Maedhros looked at his little brother for some time, deep in thought. Then he removed the fabric from Caranthir’s face and after returning it to the stall he led them to different part of the market.

“Come, I have an idea,” he said, stopping in front of a vendor selling glassware.

Maedhros talked with the vendor for a while, then the elf rummaged for something underneath the stall, finally producing a small sheet of glass. Maedhros took it then handed it to Caranthir.

“Try looking through it.”

The glass was almost completely black, but it still let a little bit of light through. He put the glass up against his eyes, and relief flooded him as the stinging sensation abated.

“It doesn’t hurt!” Caranthir exclaimed, his hands fluttering about him in a rare show of joy.

Maedhros ordered a full sheet of coloured glass to be delivered home, and the very next day Caranthir was gifted with dark spectacles that protected him from the light.

Caranthir liked sitting with Maglor. The harp had a gentle sound, not too loud, and his brother practicing his scales and harp solos made for enough repetition and predictability that he could read or do his numbers homework in peace.

Maglor’s voice was nice too, but not up close. There needed to be at least two walls dividing them, so his singing didn’t hurt Caranthir’s ears with its loudness. Usually, when Maglor reached the place in his practice where he’d start singing with his harp, Caranthir would pack his books up and leave Maglor’s room for his own.

Noticing the pattern, Maglor once asked his little brother about it, and once hearing the answer he fell into silent contemplation.

The next time they were comfortably doing their own thing in Maglor’s room, his older brother gave him something.

“Try it on and tell me what you hear,” Maglor said, and helped Caranthir put the thing over his head, two padded pom-pom-like balls covering his ears.

“Can you hear me? And is it itchy at all?”

“You’re all muffled but I can hear you a little. Not itchy, but it tickles.”

Maglor just grinned, and later when he started to sing during practice, Caranthir stayed and continued his studies, unbothered by the loud sound.

The itchiness he partially figured out on his own, when a bit older Caranthir ironically got into fibre crafts. He now knew which fabrics his skin tolerated and which ones he didn’t, yet from time to time his hands would still turn red with rashes. An occupational hazard when working with all sorts of textiles.

#feanorianweek #feanorian week #caranthir #maedhros #maglor #silmarillion #the silmarillion #silm fic #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing

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marypickfords · 5 months

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The Stalls of Barchester (Lawrence Gordon Clark, 1971)

“James had a genius for imbuing objects from the past with implacable malignity. The bronze whistle in “Whistle and I’ll Come to You”, the Saxon Crown in “A Warning to the Curious”, the Mappa Mundi in “Mr. Humphry’s Inheritance” and so on. Hitchcock claimed that his “Macguffin” could be anything or nothing so long as people were prepared to kill for it, and perhaps that’s why some of his films are compelling but ultimately empty constructs. James’ objects are truly frightening because they resonate with our deepest and oldest fears about what lurks in the darkness outside the comfort and light of the tribal campfire. A whistle blown could summon who knows what fears, or perhaps a terrifying storm, a crown buried in a coastal barrow was a sacred guardian against invasion and to remove it earns the ultimate punishment, and when Haynes sits in the Archdeacon’s throne in the choir stalls for the first time he puts his hand on the carved figure of a crouching cat that adorns his armrest, and his fate is sealed.” — Lawrence Gordon Clark, quoted in Yuletide Terror: Christmas Horror on Film and Television (2017), edited by Kier-La Janisse.

#the stalls of barchester #lawrence gordon clark #yuletide terror: christmas horror on film and television #kier la janisse #caps #w*#mr james christmas

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charlesreeza · 2 years

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The Nuns’ Choir - Monastery of San Gregorio Armeno, Naples

The entrance to this 17th century Baroque chapel is in one corner of the monastery’s cloister. The cloistered nuns (separated from the outside world) gathered here every day to pray and chant the Liturgy of the Hours, a collection of Psalms, Bible readings, hymns, and prayers offered every three hours starting at 6 am and finishing at midnight.

The choir also overlooks the main church of the monastery from the area on the upper part of the rear wall - the choir loft - enclosed by a screen that allows the nuns to see and participate in mass without being seen by the congregation.

Photos by Charles Reeza

#Baroque art #architecture #antique furniture #wood carving #choir stalls #catholic liturgy #monastic life #convent #Napoli #Italy #places to see

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delopsia · 6 months

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Rhett can sing.

It's not a thing he's ever mentioned, not even in passing; too shy to bring it up in conversation and a little nervous about coming off as unnerving like Billy does. It's some old skill his momma instilled in him when he was young, from enrolling him in the church choir to singing with him on the rare afternoon when he got to help out in the kitchen.

And when his begging to quit the choir finally worked, and Royal started loading him down with more chores, the singing never really stopped. Because now he was used to singing some thoughtless tune while he worked, chasing away the silence like his momma does. Always quiet, a muttering melody for his ears only, so faint that his lips hardly moved.

He stumbles along with the lyrics of his favorite songs, voice hesitantly rising to match the music blaring from his old truck speakers. Afraid to hear himself, always needing to be drowned out by the voice of another.

So when you're woken by a rumbling tone early one spring morning, it takes a moment to realize where it's coming from. Or rather, who.

Rhett and his gentle words, swirling around your head until that remaining sleepiness melts into a serene dizziness. Your closed lashes fluttering against your cheeks as his calloused fingertips stroke across your shoulders. A song your ears have never heard before but feels so familiar against your naked skin.

You don't think to mention it, when you open your eyes during the lull in the lyrics, fearing that mentioning it would send him running, like a feral cat that has gotten too close.

And it keeps happening.

Every so often, you wake to the roughness of fingers skirting across your skin and the slow song of a cowboy who thinks you're still asleep. Like clockwork, you wait until the silence suggests he's done., in too deep to reveal you've been awake all of this time.

You hear him in the kitchen, deep voice rumbling as he makes his morning coffee and in the halls late at night, daring to let his voice carry because he's too tired to really care. That old guitar covers up every hint of his words, but you still think you can hear them in the wind.

But then winter rolls around, and he's staying in bed longer in the mornings, clinging to the heat your soft body brings. His big arms wound tight around you, lips brushing against the top of your head as he loses himself in the mutterings of a tune. Words wrapping around you like a blanket, guiding your hand to smooth up and down his naked back.

His voice stalls, falling into immediate silence. Knows he's been caught.

Your body shifts, cheek settling against the tattoo on his upper chest, daring to speak, "keep going."

His arm twitches, daring to draw you a little closer. Eyelashes flutter against your forehead, and you can already imagine how they've gone wide with surprise and maybe a hint of fear.

But, to your surprise, he continues. Picking up where he left off, shakily stumbling through the words, aware of his audience this time. It's quiet, barely loud enough to reach your ears, but it's sweeter than all of the other times when he thought you to be asleep. Until, like every other song, he falls into silence again.

"How long 've you been awake?" He mutters, tilting his head to get a look at you, snuggled up to his chest.

"Since you started," you almost regret looking back at him because the redness in his face is enough to make your skin feel too hot, "and every time before that."

This should make the end of it, really. Bring in a time where he double-checks that you're still asleep, but instead, it happens more.

Hugging you from behind while you make cookies in the kitchen, singing some melody he heard off the radio, vying for a bite of dough. Whispered tunes after steamy nights and moonlit serenades from the back of his truck.

It's quiet and it's never perfect, but it's a private show, just for you, and it's all you could ever ask for.

#i didnt know how to end this #rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #delgato's warmups #outer range

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sword-is-bored · 1 year

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Wow. Just wow.

Link X Reader

Reader is gender neutral (if I missed a pronoun let me know!)

Reader is also Zelda’s sibling :)

(OOT Link/HW Link, TP Link, BOTW Link it doesn’t matter to me)

Link was present with the other guards as the princess was announced. Being the Hero and all, he was required to make an appearance to show loyalty to Hyrule. Zelda was called and she curtsied in front of her audience before joining the king. Link was ready to leave. He’d been at this celebration for ages. Hyrule had been rebuilt as soon as the peril had ended, and now they were celebrating the health of the royal family. Big deal. A ball for the people was nice, but Link never found himself wanting to mingle with people. His plan was to pay his respects and leave as soon as humanly possible.

And then, a second royal was announced. (Y/n). Link’s eyes snapped to attention. He wasn’t aware there was a second royal child. And yet, there they stood. In front of the crowd of people their face reflected poise and elegance. Link’s breath left his lips, and he couldn’t believe it. They were beautiful. Radiant. Why didn’t he know there was a second. Judging by their face, they couldn’t be more than a year or two younger than Zelda. Link found himself embarrassed at the lack of formal attire he chose to wear. Just his adventure gear… which hasn’t been washed.

Link was disgusted with himself. He bathed, sure, but these clothes? They smell like blood, sweat and like he rolled in Epona’s stall and then slept there. Standing with the guards, yeah they’re men. But a beautiful royal like (Y/n)? He tried to rack his brain for any idea on what to do. And then said (Y/n) was walking towards him. Link continued to panic, hoping the young royal would stay away from him. “Link, it’s so nice to meet you.” Their voice sounded like a choir of angels specifically picked by Hylia to speak with him. “My sister has told me all about you.” They said, smiling at him. It’s like the whole kingdom decided to stare at the two. Link felt his face heat up, he took a knee and couldn’t muster anything. They laughed, patting his head gently. Their laugh sounded like a bell. He loved it. “I’ll see you at the ball then?” The royal asked. Link nodded, continuing to stare at the ground. “Alright then. I’ll see you.” And with that, they pulled away. Link’s head slowly rose to watch as the royal walked away. “Wow.” He whispered. Immediately Link turned to the guards that stood around him. “Where can I get something to wear for the ball?”

(Y/n) awaited the hero, nervousness flooding their body. They watched the crowd whilst they sat at their throne. Zelda sat beside them, gently placing a hand on theirs. “He might not come, (Y/n). He’s not big on parties, or other people.” She said. (Y/n) chewed their lip, the calming feeling of their older sisters hand atop theirs was nice. “He… he said…” They continued to look anxiously. “I just thought he’d be different. I’ve been meaning to make a move ever since you’ve gotten closer to him. He’s so gentle and kind and amazing. I was hoping to ask him on a date.” Zelda gave (Y/n) a sad smile. Link had voiced his anxieties about being around others often enough that she doubted he would show. However, the blonde running into the ballroom would say different.

Link managed to get his hands on a royal guard outfit. The blues and reds cascading down his body made him look regal and elegant. (Y/n) straightened up in their throne and quickly stood. Link turned, facing the royal. His eyes slowly drank in how they looked. Elegant and absolutely breathtaking. “(Y/n), I’m so sorry I’m late.” The words tumbled out of his mouth. “I needed to find something to wear. I wasn’t planning on coming.” He admitted before letting out a laugh. “But, plans changed.” (Y/n)’s heart soared hearing that. “Yes. Yes they do.” They approached Link, taking his hands and staring into his pretty eyes. “Hello there.” (Y/n) smiled. “Can we start dancing now?” Link nodded and (Y/n) led him to the dance floor. Together the two began to dance. Link was following their lead as closely as possible. After a few moments, (Y/n) broke the ice.

“I was, uh, actually wondering something important?” Step, step, twirl. (Y/n) avoided his eyes. “And what’s that?” Link steps back, (Y/n) steps forward. “Would you be willing to accompany me? Through the gardens sometime?” Link seemed confused by the request. “Like, as your bodyguard? Because I’m sure there’s knights anywhere who could do that for you. I’m a bit of overkill if you’re worried—“ Link began to ramble and (Y/n) quickly put a stop to that. “No, as a date. I want you to go on a date with me.”

#the legend of zelda #tloz #legend of zelda #link legend of zelda #link is a softie and i stand by that #x reader #i love him #link x reader #link x you #ocarina of time #hyrule warriors #link twilight princess #twilight princess #loz twilight princess #loz hyrule warriors #loz ocarina of time #love is in the air #princess zelda #loz zelda

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dozing-marshmallow · 4 months

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CHRISTMAS WITH TOTAL DRAMA CHARACTERS(CHRIS, DUNCAN, HEATHER) SCENARIOS

Merry Christmas everyone! So sorry I couldn’t post something Christmas themed sooner, I hope everyone’s been having a wonderful day with family and friends whether you celebrate or not!🎄❤️

CHRIS

Despite the Christmas events he hosted for many networks, Chris didn’t feel he was really celebrating it until he went over to Newfoundland.

Before dinner, you joined him on this tradition that his homeland calls “Mummering” where it was basically Guess Who and Trick or Treat combined.

Needless to say, every neighbour you visited guessed who he was correctly.

He was reluctant to complete the family secret Santa. Originally, you sucked your teeth, thinking he was just being arrogant. However, from that event, you got an insight on the nature of a lot of his relatives- opportunistic.

“Could you lend me a few thousand dollars? What’s a guy like you to lose?", "Could you be the best nephew in the world and pay for the wedding of my best friend’s daughter?", "Could you help me pay off my mortgage?"

No wonder why your husband was barely enjoying himself at the dinner table! These people didn’t see him as a human; they saw him as a big shot wallet.

“Tell me, Chris... Is this how every Christmas goes for you?” you asked when it was just you and him, sitting next to him on the guest bed.

He was as sombre as ever. Sombre!,“Yeah. Told you the rest of the family weren’t important. I only bother to put up with them for my mom. I wish they all drop dead soon though.”

Not on Christmas Day... You couldn’t end the evening like this,“Okay... Is there anything you want to do together to cheer you up before we go to bed?”

“Hm...” the exhaustion shifts in his eyes as he smugly commands,“Tell me how good I look.”

You sigh in annoyance. That, you could do any day,“Really, Chris?”

“Fiiiiiine.” his moping tone of voice settled back,“I suppose raiding the leftover desserts wouldn’t hurt.”

“That...” is an oddly simple request coming from him,“Yet you’re implying you never did it?”

His attention is caught by the room’s door,“I didn’t have anyone I wanted to do it with.”

And unlike the fall of snow, his festive misery had vanished all at once.

“ᴬˡˡ ᴵ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ᶜʰʳⁱˢᵗᵐᵃˢ ⁱˢ ʸᵒᵘ!”

DUNCAN

Duncan’s dad was very pushy about Church this time around.

And he always found in his best interest to not go anyway.

This time though, you were there with him. So he decided, he’ll go this year.

He was also forced to join the local youth choir that would sing on the streets to raise money for those in need.

As long as he got to wear a mask...

“Not happening.” his dad sneered.

Okay, it wasn’t actually as bad as he thought it’d go.

Though he didn’t want to give his dad that satisfaction so he played sour about coming home. His main motivation was to steal some plates worth of food, give his mother her Christmas present and stuff the stockings of his cousins with bars of coal.

If anyone asks, you didn’t see anything.

His mom knitted him a Christmas sweater in return so obviously he wore it.

He visited his friends back in juvie with you.

It was quite heartwarming, seeing these teens who had done wrong in the past still have tenderness to friends and family, making you wish them a good future post leaving prison.

Besides, if they were Duncan’s friends, they had to have some morals.

Walking back, it was clear that he had room left for mischief and wanted to fill that space by stalling so you would be in front of him and turn around in confusion to not be met with Duncan, but his snowball.

“Hahaha! Nice makeup!”

You brush the snow off your face and feel your own devil inspire.

Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine.

You bent down and rolled up a snowball. Let the fight begin!

“ ᴼ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ, ᵃˡˡ ʸᵉ ᶠᵃⁱᵗʰᶠᵘˡ, ʲᵒʸᶠᵘˡ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʳⁱᵘᵐᵖʰᵃⁿᵗ!”

HEATHER

She scrunches her nose at the arrival of Christmas, that season that’s “nothing but noise and shallow junk.”

"I got you a present." you held it out for her.

“Buying my favour when it’s not my birthday, huh?” she looked inside the bag with no anticipation until she saw designer clothes neatly folded. She raised a smile and an eyebrow as she glanced back at you,“Okay, I guess it’s not that bad.”

Seeing her house made you wonder why she auditioned to come on the show.

To her displeasure, you were having fun cutting snowflakes, painting ornaments and decorating gingerbread men with her younger brothers and sisters.

Even more so when you helped her parents prepare the meal.

“We could never dream of Heather helping us out in the kitchen!” her mother claimed, wearing gloves over her manicured hands and a long apron over her expensive attire,“This is a nice change!”

“For sure! (Y/N) should come every year! Maybe our Heather Feather could learn a thing or two from you!” her father would then add on, with a hopeful smile.

With that, she dragged you out of the kitchen by the ear lobe.

“Let’s get out of here. I want something to drink.” she demanded, all ready in her outside winter gear.

Why come home if you’re not going to enjoy yourself?

You’re about to pay for the cozy drinks, but Heather interrupts you.

“I’ll do it.”

After an opening sip and staring at all this pure white showering from the sky, you smirk at Total Drama’s first villain,“So she does have a giving heart!”

Her answer was as cold, but her face was soft,“Don’t make me spill this on you.” the steam from her cup should be the only thing your eyes made contact with,“I just felt nice today. Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t, I won’t.”

Something about that clarification made her tighten her grip on her cup for a small moment.

Seems like she wanted to give home a chance to fix her a reason for being...this. Generous.

A reason to like Christmas.

However, being with you, peacefully drinking with her, not disgusted or intimidated, was a reason on its own.

“ᵀʰⁱˢ ʸᵉᵃʳ, ᵗᵒ ˢᵃᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗᵉᵃʳˢ, ᴵ’ˡˡ ᵍⁱᵛᵉ ⁱᵗ ᵗᵒ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ˢᵖᵉᶜⁱᵃˡ,”

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