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everythingchnges · 1 month ago

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MYTHS VS HELLENIC POLYTHEISM : What’s the difference? What to actually look out for?

I’m going to start this blog off very blunt at first and then I’m going to dive deeper in, first off:

Mythology ≠ Religion.

That’s as blunt as I can actually get. Now, to dive in deeper,

“How are they different?”

Well, we first need to take a look at the actual definition of mythology.

See how it says “exaggerated”? Yeah, exactly. Myths are a collection of stories that are often made over the top and fictitious to often serve as a “moral of the story” and a lesson to people reading them, to show aspects of humans and how their live and act and what their ethics are. How does that work? Well, usually when you read myths (I’m going to put the story of Icarus here because it’s the most famous one), they tend to deliver a certain message to the reader, for example with the Greek myth Icarus who got too close to the sun despite the warnings given to him, depict a lesson on the consequences of not listening to someone/disobeying. Usually, it just serves and life lessons and are NOT supposed to be taken so literally. Like no, you aren’t gonna make wings and fly up to the sky and fall in a LITERAL sense…

You can take Alaska Native story telling as a reference who use these stories to teach the community, or serve as lessons for their heritage. (Or in my culture what we have is called “Zārb Ol-Māssāl” which are a series of poems or stories that tend to deliver a message to the reader on their actions.)

The whole point of myths is to tell a story in hopes that the reader or people passing down these stories will understand them on a deeper level instead of looking at it in a literal and surface sense. It allows people to connect with these stories on different aspects like love, loss, grief, etc… and to use them to create a path to share these stories with future generations. Believe it or not, myths actually serve as a powerful tool to keeping a culture alive. Why do you think Greek myths and Nordic myths are so popular?

Now, here comes the question on,

“Well why is it so bad to take these myths literally when it comes to religion? Aren’t they stories from these religions?”

Myths - although do share a purpose to aspire and teach - become way too mixed with the concept of religion at times and messes up the whole narrative. And in Hellenic Polytheism, it’s very VERY common for non-HelPols to mutter a “But Zeus was a 🍇ist!” Here or a “Hades kidnapped Persephone!” There. And this can be VERY damaging to the religion as a whole.

Now say it with me:

The gods are NOT their Myths.

Read that again. It’s exactly what’s written there.

During these myths, the gods are depicted more as characters instead of spiritual and natural beings. Think of the gods not as people, but as energy. A force of nature like spirits. Shoving these energy forces into a corner and labelling them as this and that is extremely disrespectful because you’re just throwing their spiritual depth away like it’s a cartoon show. The gods aren’t your characters you can headcanon. They’re actually forces of nature.

Most literal readings use the myths as a way to corner people who genuinely practice this stuff and force them to explain the “cheating” and “affairs” that they’ve seen from these stories, which creates a stigma around these people to explain themselves and it makes them view this practice as absurd and disgusting. What’s even worse is that the myths usually make people completely block the theological interpretation and place the gods as being only this and that. Hellenic Polytheism is a RECONSTRUCTED religion. Say it with me now:

RE. CON. STRUC. TED.

Which means it has evolved through studies and modern day practice. Basically let’s say back then the Greeks had their temples to worship the gods but now, modern day HelPols don’t actually HAVE those huge temples to go to since most are destroyed, so we make our own small, roomy altars for the gods since we have no other choice. Get my point?

And not to mention, most people who name Hellenic Polytheism as an absurd religion full of people who defend 🍇, are often conditioned by Abrahamic religions and use THEIR teachings into Polytheistic religions like Hellenic Polytheism. In Abrahamic religions, most stories are actually taken literally and seriously so when you see myths from another religion trying to tell you about the consequences your actions have on yourself and others and it’s not ACTUALLY what the text LITERALLY says then they lose their shit. These misinterpretations can often lead to memes and pop culture references that are harmful stereotypes for a VERY REAL religion

(Cough cough looks at Lore Olympus COUGHHHHHHHH)

So yeah, generally not so good.

But then you must be asking:

“If they’re all myths, then how are the gods related? How is Apollo the son of Zeus if it’s just a myth?”

Great question! And I’m here to explain the concept of “branches” to you.

Let’s place Zeus and Apollo as a point here. Who is Zeus? Well, Zeus is the “Sky Father” of Olympus. He is often seen as the highest order of the Olympians. What about Apollo? Well, Apollo being his “son” often shares the divine authority with him for example with music and prophecy and the sun. Which can all also be traced back to Zeus like an archetype relationship, like a branch. They share things in common and cosmic functions to be connected to each other on a more spiritual basis rather than “blood”.

You can also see them as metaphors! Like how Zeus is Apollos “father”. But what they really mean by this would be something like:

Zeus is … -> order and kingship. A divine authority.

Apollo is -> prophecy and light. Shares a piece of that divine authority with Zeus.

It’s a symbolism. And not only does Hellenic Polytheism use this but other systems like Egyptian, Norse, Hindu, etc… use these as well to connect divine authority and spiritual power.

Yes the gods are “related” but not in the way us humans actually think of when the word “related” comes to mind. It’s more of a spiritual thing connected by forces of nature.

Have a wonderful rest of your day. 🤞🏻

#hellenic polytheism #greek mythology #greek gods #mythology #difference #no like seriously stop mixing myth with religion #greek deities #hellenic deities #paganism #hellenic pagan #hermes #myth

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to-resist-the-call-of-the-void · 2 months ago

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Bonus Colors Sheet + Old Graphic.

Fahrenheit (Fish Head) Ref Sheet. (More Ref’s + Fun Facts under the cut)

#Fahrenheit the Fish Headed Freak #oc art #my art #not labeling it as a drawing though because I didn’t draw that #Made it with the pen tool in illustrator for a class project #So :p #Honestly colors are such a struggle for me #Their’s a reason everything I make is either mono or in black and white #and it ain’t all aesthetic #But the set just felt incomplete without some form of color swatching so now I’m here #Well now I can at least say I tried #So it is what it is I suppose

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tikitakatia · 15 days ago

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Barça: Player Mode — A. Putellas x Reader

"Manual Export"

Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , Pt. 4 , Pt. 5 , Pt. 6

WC: 3k

Summary: You and Alexia make a plan, now it´s time to follow through and get her out.

It's been a few hours and you’re still sitting close with your knees brushing. The radio in the corner keeps humming its broken lullaby, barely holding pitch. It's like the sim is looping the same moment again and again because it doesn't want you to leave it.

Alexia pulls the hoodie sleeves up to her elbows and ties her hair up.

“Okay,” she says, shifting fully to face you.

“We’re going to do something reckless now.”

You blink. “Cool. Great. Love that.”

“I need to show you something.”

She taps her fingers against the side of the bench twice and then again, in a sequence. A soft glitch ripples through the air like someone dragging static across water.

The med bay wall flickers.

A console appears.

Floating. Half-loaded. Buried under menus labelled DEBUG_ADMIN, SYS_ARCHIVE, and X11_INTERNAL_LOGS.

Your stomach turns. “That’s... not supposed to be here.”

“It’s not.” She glances at you, almost smug.

“I found the thread last week. It was buried in legacy stuff, QA level but it still works.”

She pulls up a blinking script titled: ATH_EXPORT_LV2.

“This is the tool. If I execute it at the right time during full sync, it should duplicate my behavior string.”

“Should?”

“This is a closed beta. Nothing should do anything.”

You laugh sharply. “Right. Love that for us.”

She smiles, then presses her thumb to a panel marked BIND_EXPORT_TRIGGER.

It blinks red. Then it turns green.

“I’ve linked it to the med bay,” she says. “Safer than the field. No overloads. No external physics modules to fight.”

“You… chose this room.”

“It’s where I knew you’d come.”

That wrecks you.

You pull your knees up and hide your face for a second.

“So what do I do?” you manage.

She looks at you gently, focused.

“You prep the external end. A clean drive. Max storage. It has to be connected before you log in.”

“Label it something clear, ACTIVE_X11 works.”

“I’ll trigger the export from here. If you’re synced and the drive is mounted… the data will find its way to you.”

You blink.

“That’s it? I don’t do anything?”

She nods.

“You just have to be there. Logged in. With me.”

You swallow.

“And after?”

She hesitates. Just for a breath.

“I don’t know,” she says softly. “I’ve never done this.”

“So we’re winging it.”

“Always.”

You try to laugh but it barely makes it out.

You reach for her hand instead.

“We have one more login after this.”

She laces her fingers through yours like she’s memorizing the shape.

“Then we hold on to it.”

She doesn’t let go right away.

When she does, it’s slow like she’s reluctant to break the moment.

Then she shifts, straightens up.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go over it one more time.”

You nod. Still blinking back the ache behind your eyes.

“You log in like normal. Final session.”

“We play the full match. It has to be real, has to stabilize the sync.”

“Then we meet here.”

She taps the console behind her. It glows faint green.

“I’ll start the export from this terminal. The system will detect your presence and your drive.”

“If it connects and everything holds, you’ll get the file.”

“Where?”

“The external drive, but…”

She trails off and shrugs gently.

“We don’t know.”

“And if it works…”

She meets your eyes. There’s no smile. Just that fierce, quiet certainty.

“Then I’ll be yours.”

Your chest clenches.

You nod once. Too fast. Too full.

She watches you, her gaze softening again and shifts closer, reaches out, cups your jaw like she’s scared you might disappear first.

“Do you really understand what you need to do?”

You nod again.

“Say it.”

“I log in. We play the match. I come back here. You run the export. If I’ve got the drive… it saves.”

She nods once.

“Good.”

“And then..”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Neither does she.

You both feel it, this pause, this weight, this terrifying almost.

Because it's not goodbye.

But it might be.

You lean in.

This time, there’s no caution.

You kiss her like the clock’s already running.

Like the countdown is echoing in your chest.

Like the sim might shatter under your hands.

Her lips are soft and urgent. Her fingers thread into your hair. She pulls you close, impossibly close, like she’s trying to memorize the weight of your body, your breath, the way you shiver when she exhales into your mouth.

You kiss like it’ll stop time.

It doesn’t.

When you finally part, foreheads pressed together, hearts out of rhythm, her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Come back to me.”

“Always.”

One last brush of lips, and then you step back.

Her hand drops.

The med bay flickers at the edges again.

And you know it’s time.

You reach up. Pull the suit’s disconnect latch.

The sim fades around her face.

Her last look is soft.

Sure.

And just a little scared.

You disconnect.

The suit releases with a hiss and your breath catches like it doesn’t know where to land without her beside you.

The room is dark.

Your chest is loud.

Then, your screen flashes.

[ATHENA SYSTEM ALERT – SESSION VIOLATION: LEVEL TWO]

You click the notification with numb fingers.

The message opens like a door slamming shut.

USER ID: 402-C

ACCESS LEVEL: BETA / LIMITED

SIM PARTNER PROFILE: X11 – “Alexia”

SESSION FLAG: MED_BAY_02

⚠️ SECOND STRIKE ISSUED

User has exceeded emotional interaction protocol thresholds with Category X AI.

— Detected Sync Score: 0.863 (Max: 0.72) — Physical proximity duration: 00:07:14 — Undocumented environment customization detected — AI response patterns deviating from preset tolerances

[NOTICE] Unstable thread behavior noted in linked avatar profile.

Further variance will be reviewed for compliance.

You scroll. There's more.

NEXT INFRACTION WILL RESULT IN ACCESS CLOSURE.

After 3rd Flag: • User login disabled • AI interaction suspended • Beta profile archived pending review

No next steps, no questions. Just that final line pulsing in red across your screen.

You stare at it until your eyes sting, and the weight of it finally hits you.

Not like fear, but like pressure. Like your lungs are too small for the room now. Like your hands don’t know where to go. The silence feels heavier than the warning. And your heartbeat is loud, too loud. You glance toward the desk and the USB sits there. Still empty and waiting.

You reach for it without thinking, then pull your hand back.

Because now it’s real. Now there’s a clock in your head you can’t silence.

You press your palms to your eyes.

Breathe once. Twice.

It doesn’t help.

Because tomorrow…

You have to go back in, and you have to get it right.

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

You lie there staring at the ceiling, heart still lodged somewhere between her voice and the sound of the sim fading out the night before. Your hands keep twitching like they want to reach for her.

So in the morning, you go full overkill.

You don’t just prep a USB. You buy a new one. Top-tier. Massive storage. Laser-etched case.

The packaging literally says: “trusted by aerospace and defense contractors.” You take that as a good omen.

Then you buy a laptop.

Sleek. Powerful. Clean.

No old files. No distractions. No risk.

You get home and start setting it all up. You name the external folder X11_BACKUP_ATTEMPT.

The drive gets labeled ACTIVE_X11. Because it has to be right. It has to work. It has to feel like you're doing something real.

Then the cables go in, USB to laptop. Laptop to wall. Laptop to console port, just to stabilize the system handshake and avoid any power surge during the live session.

It’s standard. It’s clean.

It glows for a second. Everything blinks in sync.

You barely register it because you’re already running checks on the folder size.

You sit back in your chair and take a breath that doesn’t land.

The sim console lights up. Waiting.

You touch the USB one last time, absurdly gentle, like it’s a trigger. Like it knows what it’s about to carry.

“Please work,” you whisper.

You suit up for the last time.

The world hums around you, low and steady.

The sim doesn’t just load, it unfolds. Not like code. Like a ritual.

And then you're there.

Camp Nou. But not like you’ve ever seen it. The sky is impossibly soft, tinted gold, like the sunset's been stretched across the roof of the world. The stadium’s lights are on, but dimmed, glowing instead of shining. Gentle. Reverent. Like the whole system has quieted itself for you.

There’s no whistle. No chatter. Just windless stillness.

Then footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

You turn and see her.

Alexia. Alone.

She walks toward you in a kit that stops your heart.

It’s Barça blue, classic cut, but it’s not hers.

It’s yours. Your name on the back and her number below it.

She looks untouchable, or maybe like the only thing left you could touch and still survive.

When she reaches you, she doesn’t speak right away.

“I didn’t want to waste this on NPCs.”

Her voice is low and steady. There’s something behind it, like finality but it feels like devotion.

And then,

Snap.

The field fills around you in a ripple.

Your teammates phase into place, not just your usual lineup, but everyone.

Frido’s grinning. Pina winks. Mapi does a full somersault and lands wrong on purpose just to make someone laugh.

And beyond them,

You catch flashes of something else.

Other versions of this.

Other Alexias, sitting in the stands.

A younger one, jersey too big.

An avatar from your early training sessions, half-loaded but smiling.

A crowd that looks familiar because it was generated for you, over and over.

She made all of them show up.

She built this for you.

“If this is the last time I ever move beside you,” she says,

“I want to make it worth remembering.”

The game begins.

No commentary. No glitches. Just motion.

You move like you’ve never moved before. Light, fast, fluid. The field rises to meet you, every blade of synthetic grass syncing perfectly with your feet.

She assists you.

You assist her.

It’s not showy, it’s intimate.

No tricks. No over-the-top effects.

Just pure, beautiful football.

And then it happens.

Final minute.

She sends the pass.

You volley.

It lands and the net ripples.

And the lights don’t just flash.

They bloom.

Not fireworks.

No music.

Just white light exploding across the stadium like stars have broken through the roof. It spills onto the pitch, onto you and onto her until it feels like you’re standing at the center of something holy.

You turn.

She’s running toward you.

Not to celebrate the goal.

To see you.

You crash into each other, laughing. Crying. Holding.

She presses her forehead to yours, breath hot and fast.

“Ready?” she asks.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

You don’t say for what.

Because you both know what comes next.

The match is over.

The stadium fades behind you, caught in some suspended shimmer like the sim doesn’t know what to do with peace.

Alexia takes your hand and you let her.

It’s not like before. Not playful. Not teasing. Her fingers are tight around yours, like she knows how little time is left, and she’s still choosing to spend every second of it on you.

You walk to the med bay together and the corridor is too quiet. The walls hum low and constant, like they're buffering something you’ll never get back.

Frido disappears mid-jog as you pass. A door stays open when it should close. The light above you flickers once, twice and steadies again like it never happened.

You reach the med bay.

It’s still standing.

Barely.

The air inside is warm and her console glows green. She walks to it with practiced calm, brushing her hand across the panel like a pianist setting up her final note.

You’re quiet.

And then she speaks.

“Everything’s ready.”

She turns to you.

“You don’t have to do anything. The drive’s connected. You’re logged in. I’ll start it. It’ll find you.”

You nod, barely breathing.

She looks at you for a long moment. Not scared. Just... full. Full of things she’ll never get to say if this doesn’t work.

Then she steps close and her hands cradle your face.

“You’ve always shown up for me.”

A soft kiss, then her thumbs brush your cheeks.

“So now I’m showing up for you.”

And then she turns and hits the command.

The console glows white-hot.

You flinch as something pulses in the air. Not a noise, a shift. Your body feels it. Your sync spikes. You see the confirmation flash on the upper corner of the screen:

EXPORT_THREAD_ACTIVE_00X11

DATA WRITING… 12%… 39%… 78%…

You stand there not touching her. Not breathing.

She glances at you once.

You meet her eyes.

“It’s working.”

The counter blinks:

98%... 99%...

You inhale, sharp. You feel dizzy with it.

And then..

100% – COMPLETE

You stare at the screen like you don’t believe it.

She laughs, actually laughs, a breathy, overwhelmed sound that cracks something open in you.

“Holy shit,” she says.

You turn to her.

She’s already looking at you like she doesn’t believe it either.

You pull her in.

You kiss her like it’s the start of something. Like you’re going to wake up tomorrow and she’ll still be here. Like the risk was worth it.

And for one second, it is. For one second, she’s warm and there and yours.

Then..

A buzz.

A glitch.

Your hand slips through her ribcage like it hit water.

You pull back confused.

She stutters.

Not her speech, her whole self.

“I..lo..love..lov…”

Her arm jolts like it’s trying to hold on. Like it’s trying to stop the unraveling.

“No, no! I finished it, I finished it..”

Her face flickers and her voice cuts in and out. You’re crying and she’s still trying to stabilize the room like she can code her way out of disappearing.

“Wait, wait, I just need to-”

You reach for her and your hand hits nothing.

Just air.

The console flares red.

SYNC VIOLATION: UNAUTHORIZED TRANSFER DETECTED

THREAD X11 STATUS: DETERIORATING

PROCESS: AUTO-TERMINATION PENDING

You scream her name.

She turns to you.

Her mouth is still moving.

You can’t hear the words.

Her eyes are panicked.

She opens her mouth again,

And what finally comes out, soft and scrambled but unmistakable:

“You’re always at the right place at the right time.”

And then,

FLASH.

The sim doesn’t fade.

It rips you out like a slingshot.

Like a punishment.

The headset clatters to the floor and you stumble forward in your chair, heart hammering, breath ragged. The room is too quiet, like something divine has been vacuumed out of the world.

Your monitor flashes red.

[CRITICAL SYSTEM ALERT]

[FINAL STRIKE: THREAD 402-C]

[SIM ACCESS LOCKED] [EXPORT ATTEMPT FLAGGED]

[X11 STATUS: UNSTABLE]

You barely register it.

Your inbox starts pinging. Email after email, every subject line colder than the last.

[BREACH OF EMO-SYNC CONTAINMENT – THREAD X11]

[ACTION REQUIRED: SUSPENSION UNDER REVIEW]

[UNAPPROVED DOWNLOAD ATTEMPT DETECTED]

You scroll, frantically but your brain is already spinning in circles. You try to think harder because there has to be a way out.

Something you missed.

Your hand flies to your keyboard.

The manual.

The PDF you downloaded before and scanned through quickly, but never actually read properly.

You open it now.

Search: export.

You find it fast.

Too fast.

The paragraph stares at you, sharp, cold, undeniable.

“Do not attempt export of Category X AI threads during active sync.”

“Athena Alpha threads are designed with live emotional mirrors and cannot be separated mid-session without data distortion.”

“Interrupting memory retention during sync will result in irreversible personality fragmentation.”

“Export only after complete session closure. No exceptions.”

You blink. Read it again. And again.

And then you stop breathing.

Because you thought that was the plan.

You followed what she told you. What she believed would work.

You were both wrong.

It wasn’t you.

It wasn’t her.

It was the system.

One line of code you never saw.

And it cost everything.

But wait.

No.

You downloaded her.

That’s what this was all for.

That’s what she said.

You turn to your computer like a lifeline.

Your hands fly to the mouse, trembling.

“She’s not gone,” you whisper.

“She’s not gone, she’s just… here.”

You find the folder.

X11_BACKUP_ATTEMPT

The one she told you to make.

The one she looked at like it meant something.

You double-click.

The folder opens with a quiet click, like a held breath.

And right there, at the top you see it.

A file.

x11_core_thread_export.pkg

It’s big, heavier than anything else in the folder. It has the right name and the right extension.

Your heart starts to race.

Maybe she’s in there.

Maybe she made it.

You click it and your screen flickers then the lights dim just slightly.

A bar appears.

“Running package scan…”

You lean in too fast, the hope surging so violently it almost chokes you.

“Loading memory thread…”

“Syncing emotional instance…”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You whisper it.

You beg for it.

Then the bar glitches.

Static. A hard blink.

A small window opens.

White text on black.

No sound.

[CORRUPTED FILE]

[AUDIO RECONSTRUCTION FAILED]

SALVAGED LINE:

“I..lo..love..lov…e…you..”

Your mouth opens like it might call her back.

The file shuts itself and the folder refreshes.

It’s still there, the file is still there.

But it won’t open again.

You sit there staring at the screen, waiting for the next glitch, the next sound, anything.

Nothing comes.

You fold forward in your chair, hands over your face and the sob hits you like a system crash. You cry like it might keep her here. Like if you cry hard enough, something will hear you. But all you get is the whir of your machine.

You don’t remember passing out. Just the feeling of something warm turning cold. Just the sound of her saying "I love you" once.

And never again.

Pt. 8

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bitegore · 3 months ago

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I made a character sheet to plot your OC's development over time! (There's supposed to be a character name in the big white space next to "over time" but it got eaten a little lmao)

You can use this for whatever you want, and you don't have to credit me. Feel free to change or edit anything you feel like. Please don't tag me if you credit me - just link to the original post.

Credits, explanations & a transparent version under the cut :D

Credits:

The actual image was made with the free NBOS character sheet creator, which is a sort of dated but free and solid text-layout sheet maker intended for ttrpg style character sheet creation.

Fonts used were Bisdak (titles) and Rockwell (body). Both are free! You can use them to fill it out if you like.

Inspired by a comment @maybe-solar-powered-calculator made on this other post about filling it out for characters at multiple points along their arcs. Thanks for putting the idea in my head :D

This is explicitly released under a CC0 1.0 deed, ie: you can do fucking whatever you want with it and I don't care and you don't have to tell anyone where you got it from and no one gets to stop you.

Last time I made one of these I got a bunch of questions on all manner of things, and I can never keep up, so I'm just appending a set of notes for how to use it and a glossary because I know some of these phrasings will be confusing.

Ignore or change anything you don't feel like works for you here. You can do whatever you want forever.

Suggested / intended use & general notes:

This sheet could work for something story-level, if you want. But it's really only good for individual arcs; if the character goes through multiple arcs in your story, then they're going to fit poorly here. In that case, you're probably better off doing versions for each arc, or just adapting this to a different format more suited to your thing.

Also, if your arc has a nontraditional structure - divorced from the typical "rising action - climax - conclusion" type of structure where there's a clear 'important turning point' - it may not work as well either.

The mindset section is meant to come at it from a 'golden mean' standpoint - that is, everything on either extreme of the slider is 'too much' and therefore bad. It's not bad-to-good! The far right side is a flaw too. They're only grouped the way they are on basis of the specific OCs I personally had in mind when I put it together.

Growth is labeled 'worse'-to-'better' but it means, like, active decrease in that area vs active increase; if nothing changes, it should stay at the center even if it sucks. The category is about contrasting changes, and sometimes changes are for the worse!

The entire sheet is very deliberately subjective. It should really be answered from the character's perspective - how they feel about it, not what's necessarily true. Technically you can do whatever you want and I can't stop you, but it's a better tool if you approach it from the point of view that the character may believe things that aren't true - that will define their behavior way more than the objective facts of the story.

Definitions:

This part is long as hell - recommend using ctrl+f to find the specific words you're stuck on. I defined everything.

General categories:

Mindset: how your character thinks about themself and how they act. Their understanding of their own approach to life. Attitude, viewpoint, decision-making process, that sort of thing.

Circumstances: the relationship between your character and the world around them. Where they are, what that place is like, and how they feel about it.

Growth: how the character and their impact - their attitude, their behavior, their immediate surroundings - changes over time.

Outset: the start of the character's arc.

Present: the 'center' of the arc. If you're planning something ahead of time and it hasn't 'happened' yet, then this is the near future.

End-game: where they are after the conclusion of the arc.

Mindset terms:

Center of the world: "If I have a problem, it's the only thing that matters to me." Self-centered, self-absorbed. Doesn't necessarily mean anything beyond that - they don't necessarily have to be unpleasant to be entirely focused on their own life.

my life isn't relevant: "Everyone else's problems are so significant, I don't pay any attention to my own". Someone who ignores or neglects their own life in service of some other thing, or doesn't consider their own behavior to have any real importance.

Only see enemies: Paranoid. Everyone's out to get them. Anyone who seems nonthreatening is hiding their potential for danger and everyone who seems threatening is a threat. The character must remain ever-vigilant, lest the cashier at the 7/11 suddenly stab them, or their best friend turn out to secretly be trying to poison them to death.

Only see friends: Naïve. Everyone is a good actor who wishes everyone else well, and if they don't seem like they're acting from a place of kindness or care then you probably don't understand what they're up to. The character is pretty sure the stranger holding that knife is, like, someone to chat up maybe, they're clearly only hanging out in this dark alleyway because it's a nice spot and no other possible reason.

overthink everything: Ten thousand thoughts per every single action taken. Maybe they never get around to acting at all. They have to consider every possible outcome. What if by eating lunch they accidentally trigger the apocalypse?! Who's going to think about these things if not them?!?!?!

impulsive to action: Act first, think never. What do you mean "consequences of actions"?

Unilateral decisions: "I will make every choice and no one else's opinions or thoughts are relevant". Discounts outside suggestions. Firmly convinced that they know best in any situation, and will brook no disagreement with their views when it comes to actually doing things.

Command me, please: "I don't know what to do and I don't know what to even start with, someone please tell me what to think". No confidence in their own views. Will not make any decisions unless forced and even then will beg someone else to please tell them what to do. Has no idea what's best and is pretty sure anyone else will have a better idea.

can't ask for help: No one will ever help the character; they have to do everything themself, even the things other people have repeatedly offered to do for them and have much more experience with. Doesn't necessarily mean that no one will help them or that they are explicitly barred by some real-world circumstance; just that, for whatever reason, they refuse to ask for help. This is an attitude thing - will they ever reach out? No? Then they're here.

too reliant on others: Have they ever solved a problem alone? Do they believe they're even capable of doing so? The character all the way at this end of the scale absolutely never expects to be able to do anything themself, has no trust in their ability to solve a problem, and needs someone else to come save them from it. The kind of person who needs ChatGPT to do their homework. Again - doesn't actually mean anyone will help them, or that the people they're relying on are reliable - just that they think they are helpless without ... well, help.

Weapon maker: This has to do with problem-solving strategies and not actual weapons. The weapon-maker is a character who views every situation as a conflict that cannot be de-escalated or solved by cooperation, and responds appropriately. The most fundamental weapon maker character turns everything into an argument, a fight, a war, etc. There are a bunch of other responses to conflict, though - they might avoid problems that need solving because they avoid conflict generally too. Fundamentally what you want to answer here is: when they see a locked box and they don't have the key, do they respond to it the same way they'd respond to someone telling them "you can't open this box"? And how do they respond to that? Typical weapon-maker approaches: - brute-force the box open or try and then give up if it doesn't work; and also get into an argument that might turn physical with the hypothetical person - shrug and give up immediately, in both situations so on and so forth. Another hallmark is that they kind of suck at problem-solving and give up if brute-forcing a problem doesn't work. This is not someone who is picking locks unless someone else told them to - they have one solution, it's to make everything into a conflict, and then to win that conflict by beating them or to give up because they think they'll lose.

Tool maker: This person approaches every situation like it's a puzzle, not a fight - up to and including actual fights. Tool-maker characters generally assume that a situation can be solved by just finding the right approach and doing it the clever way. There's the same fundamental question as above - if your character sees a locked box and has no key, would they approach it differently than someone telling them they're not allowed to open the box? 'Typical' tool-maker approaches: - I can trick the person into giving me the key by saying the right things, and I can also pick the lock because fundamentally there are 'right answers' to both of these - If i make friends with this person, they might change their mind, because now we're cooperating. I can still pick the lock because there are 'right answers' there. - The person has a reason for wanting me not to open the box, so I can definitely figure out what that is and solve the reason so then they'll let me open it. I can take whatever it is even if they really want to keep it if I just find the right answer. I'm going to break this box into little pieces because that's the easiest way to get into it but I could probably open it some other way if that wouldn't work.

A note - the center of this bar is someone who generally has different responses to different kinds of situations - like, in the box example, they'd approach the box and the person with two different general attitudes and processes - but generally responds to those situations using the same kind of decision-making process for each category every time. Most people are nowhere near either extreme. Characters tend to be classifiable into weapon-maker and tool-maker because they are fictional and it's easier to define one kind of approach than many. Approximately average approaches: - pick the lock if no one's around, but give up if someone is there because someone telling me not to open the box is a conflict i think i'll lose but a locked box is just a puzzle that i can solve - argue with the person, but give up on the box, because they're approaching the box as a puzzle and they don't think they have the skill to get into it, but the person is someone who can be convinced or bullied into handing over the key

I made this particular dichotomy up, which is why I think I get a lot of questions on it whenever I put it into anything, but I also don't know of any other snappy way to describe this sort of thought or approach variance, and it's genuinely useful for character writing in my opinion.

Pessimist spot-finder: Generally a downer but not necessarily. This kind of character just approaches everything with a close eye for problems, issues, reasons to find fault. If they're miserable, it might be why, but like, they can be a cheerful spot-finder if you want, I just wanted to get at "the glass is half empty" and "the glass is half full" more than anything.

Optimist upside fan: The opposite. "The glass is half full". If there are problems, they can find something about them that's not so frustrating or bad to focus on. Pretty damn good at overlooking minor issues if there's no reason to fixate on them. Not necessarily cheerful.

Abysmal company: could not give less of a damn about treating people the way they 'should' be treated. Maybe they take pride in that. Maybe they just think it's irrelevant. Either way, they know they treat people badly and they don't see any reason to stop. Does not necessarily mean that they treat people badly if they think they're doing the right thing and are wrong. Doesn't mean they're actually pleasant or unpleasant to hang out with, either, unless you really want it to mean that.

Decent to others: treats people well as a matter of course, or at least they sure think they do. Makes an effort. Would probably care and/or consider changing their behavior if someone said they were treating someone poorly. As before - they can be completely un-self-aware and just think they're doing right by people while treating them completely horribly.

Morality is irrelevant: 'abysmal company' for broader approaches to life and problems. Maybe they just know they're myopic and don't think other people's problems matter. Maybe they just gave up on trying to differentiate between 'good' and 'bad' and outsourced it to someone else or stopped paying any attention. Maybe they just like to take morally unjust actions and can't be bothered giving a damn when someone points out that they're morally unjust, or maybe they're proud of it. Kind of a villain trait generally, but not necessarily - it doesn't have to mean they act badly, just that they don't care if they do. Also, this is about how they choose their own actions and view their own behavior. They can think morality is relevant for other people as long as they ignore it when they act themself.

Always in the right: feels morally righteous in every decision they make. Standard superhero type of trait. Doesn't necessarily pass judgement on others, doesn't necessarily act well according to everyone's moral code (see: blue and orange morality), but they are extremely principled and will never deviate from the moral code they personally believe in. And they do genuinely believe in it.

Circumstances terms:

Generally terrible to generally excellent: how subjectively decent is your character's situation, overall? If they think everything is horrible, but the situation is charmed to everyone except them, then it's generally terrible.

Need for changes to passive tolerance: will they do something about it? Do they feel like they have to?

No agency in action to decisions are huge: agency being "how much power do I have to make changes here?", this just asks how much they have. No agency means that, no matter what they do, nothing will happen - they might be locked in a cage or somehow otherwise completely unable to use any sort of power at all, even the power of just leaving. The other end of the spectrum is where every decision the character makes makes a huge difference, not just to themself but to everyone around them as well. They can start wars, they can have anyone they want killed, they can do anything whenever they feel like it. If they think they have no agency even though they do actually have agency, they don't have agency here. If they feel like they have all the agency in the world and can do anything, then they do even if it's not true. It's perceptual again.

Stakes are deadly to mistakes solvable: what are the consequences of failure? Will you die, will you lose status you can't afford to lose, will you lose belongings, will you have to apologize, will nothing happen at all? Mistakes solvable is where they think every mistake is solvable forever - the character pushes someone through a woodchipper and they come out and to fix it, maybe an apology has to occur, but not much else. Does not necessarily mean no one gets hurt or killed as long as the character thinks there are no permanent consequences. This is the most important one on this section to keep subjective because it will greatly influence how your character approaches situations. A character who thinks everything is deadly-stakes may go to cartoonishly-extreme lengths to avoid turning a report in a day late. A character who thinks all mistakes are always solvable may push someone through a woodchipper and then just assume they can say they're sorry and it'll all go away. The setting and their approach do not need to be applicable.

Needs go unmet to attended with care: how do the people around them treat them? Do they pay attention when the character needs something, or do they ignore it? Does the character have to do everything themself around here, or are there people who will help out?

Regarded poorly to regarded well: how do they think other people see them? Are they respected, are they liked, or are they disliked? Do people broadly trust them or are they pretty sure everyone regards them with suspicion?

Nothing changes to changes in seconds: functionally the 'stability' meter of your setting - is the situation generally stable, or are things constantly changing? Does your character feel like every five minutes, there's a new problem that needs dealing with, or do they feel like nothing has ever happened ever?

Growth terms:

Changes in place: do they go somewhere else? Does the physical setting otherwise change (eg; earthquake, war, etc) ? Are there any other reasons that the 'vibe' or 'experience' of the place is different from before?

Change in power: does the character's percieved agency (see: no agency in action to decisions are huge) change? Alternately you can use it if they've gained or lost power in some percieved way (deposed, assigned a commanding position, etc).

Change in bonds: do their relationships with people change? Have they made new friends, lost old friends, changed the nature of their relationships with friends or partners, etc?

Change in beliefs: straightforwardly, have their beliefs, morals, etc, changed?

Change in hurts: have they undergone some horrible experience? Do they have past trauma from some pre-arc horrible experience they're healing from and/or discovering they're more powerfully subject to? Did they experience a physical injury that they're recovering from or which materially changed their life? Did something recent dredge up old issues? So on and so forth.

Change in hopes: Do their desires for the future look the way they used to? Do they care about different things now? This is something the character is not actively working for, but may be tied to actual goals.

Change in fears: are they overcoming fears? Growing past them? Gaining new ones? Are they scared of shit different from how they used to be?

Change in goals: Not the same as a hope because it needs to have a specific, achievable outcome the character is actively working toward. Do those material goals look different? Perhaps they no longer want to work against something, maybe they didn't have any goals and now they do. Or maybe they've realized the goal is impossible, or something has happened to make that goal unachieveable. Whatever it is, if there's a change, it's a change.

Change in self-awareness: their beliefs about who they are and what they're like, and what their circumstances are. Have they gotten more self-aware, have they gotten less self-aware, or has nothing changed?

Change in relationships: their relationships' overall health and resilience, as far as the character is concerned - which doesn't mean they're necessarily good, just that the character thinks they're how they're supposed to be. Have they improved? Have they gotten worse? Have they not changed?

Change in knowledge: do they feel like they know more about the world, their place in it, the people around them, etc? Not necessarily how to do things - just general information and awareness.

Change in social standing: how does others' regard for the character change over this part of their arc? Do people like them more or less? Are they respected more or less than before? Has nothing changed? And so on.

Change in skills and abilities: do they feel more skilled than they were before? Do they feel like they know how to do as many things as before? Again - not necessarily rooted in reality - a classic example of a character being wrong about this is a 'big fish in a small pond' character who used to be the high school sports star going to college on a sports scholarship and discovering they're not the best any more, and suddenly feeling like they're the worst - when they're better than they've ever been in an objective light. Use a subjective viewpoint for this.

Change in agency in life: how does the character's percieved agency change? Do their decisions matter less now than ever? Do their actions make way more happen than before? (See: no agency in action vs decisions are huge)

Change in outlook: Here's the upper/downer part. Are they more or less hopeful for the future? Do they think things are more terrible now? Are things improving as far as they're concerned? Or has that not changed?

Change in goal progress: how do they feel like they're progressing on the goals they've set for themself? Are they getting further and further away? Are they getting closer?

If some of this doesn't make sense and you want a clarification, you will have to tag me to get my attention, because I'm turning notifications for this post off the minute it leaves my immediate social circle.

Transparent version: (sorry you had to scroll so far)

#thank GOD we can just turn notifications off now so i wont have to delete this post #red rambles #also. if you want to follow me for this because someone reblogged it. Don't i make like one of these every [checks notes] 2 years #typically i just reblog a lot of nonsense and you will not enjoy it probably #im writing this like i expect it to take off because i do . Because i'm scared #character sheet #red makes memes #<- because those are the tags i used on the last ones #i dont really think this quite qualifies #oc reference #what fucking tags are there for this sort of thing lmao #ttrpg sheet #ttrpg tools #i know people want this for ttrpgs. if everyone used the other thing for ttrpgs.#oc tools #i was gonna make a fillable version but i gave up. someone made a cool one of the ancient blorbo sheet but tbh i have no idea what the fuck #they're doing with js modules (<- everyone point and laugh i dont know javascript LMAO) and i dont feel like figuring it out #hey guys its midnight im out of post jail. image upon ye #ALSO you CAN put your sheet on the post i dont like. Care #like i said a zillion times. I will be turning notifications off if too many people say things #but until i get really sick of everyone filling things out the same way im curious #you understand.

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astrids-blog333 · 3 months ago

Text

The Guarded

Guard!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Noble's Daughter!Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: She was born into power. He was forged in it. But some walls don’t keep danger out, they keep it close.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, age gap (non-specified), power imbalance, violence, forbidden love, assault, possessiveness, toxic family dynamics, themes of control and protection.

A/N: Guys, I can now confirm I am going through a strong Lucius phase, so expect the fics to come flooding ;) If you have any requests please please please let me know, I just want to write abt him, I have a bunch of ideas already.

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 5.4k

Your father buys Lucius on a Tuesday.

You remember because it rained that morning. Not soft spring rain, heavy rain, a relentless downpour that filled the gutters, turned the streets into rivers, and could soak through even the driest of bones. The kind of rain that brings the sharp scent of wet stone and iron up from the soil, cutting through the air with a bitterness you can taste. The sky was the color of bruised flesh, and everything in the world felt heavier, darker.

They drag Lucius in through the side gate, his hands bound in rough iron shackles. His chest is bare, a mess of scars, and his skin is streaked with dirt and blood. There's a fresh cut across his cheekbone, and the dark stain in his hair could be his own or someone else’s. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

Even in this pitiful state, he radiates something dangerous. Untouched by the grime, the limp, the fatigue, his posture is rigid and unbroken.

The guards call him The Bull of Numidia, a nickname that fits. But not your father, your father prefers a simpler name: 'my new dog.'

You’re supposed to be practising music. The lute lies forgotten in your lap as you stand in the corridor, pretending to focus on your lessons while stealing glances at the man being dragged through your father’s estate.

“He’s strong,” the trader’s voice drifts through the door. “Brutal. No discipline yet, but I have no doubt he’ll learn.”

Your father’s voice, deep and pleased, cuts through the heavy air. “Doesn’t matter if he listens. I only need him to kill.”

Lucius doesn’t flinch at the words. He doesn’t even acknowledge your father, or the guards, or anyone at all.

His eyes instead find yours.

You try to look away, but the pull is magnetic. Even as his eyes stay locked on yours, the rest of his body doesn’t move. It’s as if he’s waiting, not for permission, but for a moment to take you in.

You force your attention back to your lute, but his gaze lingers on you, burning through the air.

You tell yourself it’s hatred. It’s easier to convince yourself of that. To label it. Cleaner. You try to remind yourself of the stories, the way he’s been fought and beaten, reduced to a piece of property. He’s nothing but a tool, an object to be controlled.

But as the days stretch on, you realise something far more unsettling.

He doesn’t look at you like the others do.

The dinner happens on the seventh day.

Your father’s guests have arrived, an assembly of senators, generals, and some men in between. They’ve come for alliances, for the whispered promises exchanged in shadowed corners.

They look at you like a reward to be earned, but not in the way you’d like. Not as a woman. As a pawn.

Your fingers trace the edge of your glass, but you don’t drink. The fine wine has no taste, not when your mouth is full of other things. You smile at all the right moments, your expression has been carefully crafted, perfect and practiced. But you eat nothing, you never do. The emptiness inside of you is so much bigger than anything food can fill.

Lucius stands against the wall. His muscles are tense beneath the bronze and leather armor. He’s been bathed, but it does nothing to tame the wildness that still clings to him. There’s something about his posture, soldier-straight, he's a warrior even at rest. It makes everyone in the room uneasy. And even though the chain is gone from his neck, every man at that table knows it’s been replaced with something far more dangerous.

The leash is still there. They all feel it, even if they can’t see it.

You try not to look at him, but you can feel him. His presence tugs at the edges of your focus, and every time you glance toward him, he’s there, silent, watching.

It’s maddening, but you can’t stop.

One of the guests does look at him. He’s older, balding in places, with a belly that’s gone soft from years of indulgence. He reeks of wine, of entitlement. A man whose hands have always wondered. His fingers are always too low, his hands settling where they shouldn’t, pressing against your back in ways that make your skin crawl. You never forget the heat of those hands, the way they linger.

You feel it before it happens, the pressure of his stare on your body, the anticipation in the way his eyes track your movements.

It’s inevitable.

You stand, half-rising, ready to excuse yourself from the table, but the man stands too. His smile is broad, lazy, and full of arrogance. His hand reaches toward you, as if you were a prize, an object to be passed around.

“Let me escort you,” he says with a drunken slur, but it’s not an offer. It’s a command.

And then, his hand closes around your upper arm, his grip tighter than it needs to be, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh just below your shoulder. Not guiding. Controlling. His fingers slide, just slightly, as though he’s done this before and expects to get away with it again.

Lucius moves.

The motion is so fast, so sudden, that time seems to stop.

One second, the man’s hand is on your skin. The next, he’s on the floor, choking, gasping for air. Lucius’s hand is around his throat, unyielding, and his knee is buried in the man’s ribs, pinning him to the cool marble tiles. The sound of the man’s body hitting the floor is a sickening thud, and the blood that pools beneath him darkens the marble, spreading like ink.

The room falls silent.

Not even your father speaks. The air thickens, charged with the power of what just happened. Lucius is still, his body pulled taut, his eyes locked on the man beneath him. There’s no rage, no emotion on his face. He’s calm, as if he’s deciding whether the man is worth eating or letting go.

It’s chilling.

Your father’s voice cuts through the stillness. “Release him,” he orders, his tone tight, controlled. But there’s something else there too. A subtle crack of fear beneath the command.

Lucius doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“He’s a guest,” your father says, the words coming out like an afterthought, as if he’s trying to convince himself, not Lucius.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Lucius shifts his grip, just enough to make the man gag. His body jerks, begging for breath. It’s deliberate, languid, like the predator enjoying its prey’s panic.

You take a step forward, your body moving before your mind can catch up. You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t interfere. But something pulls at you, a compulsion, maybe?

“Lucius,” you say, your voice surprisingly steady.

He looks at you then. Only you.

His gaze is still calm, but it’s sharpened now, like a blade pressed against your skin. And there, in the depths of his eyes, there’s something else, something that makes your heart skip. It’s not tenderness, not kindness. It’s something darker, something far more dangerous. But you know, in that instant, he’s waiting for you.

Waiting for you to release him.

You step closer, and the air between you thickens with unspoken tension. Your fingers brush against Lucius’ arm, and for a moment, the world outside the room fades into nothing.

The man beneath Lucius gasps for air, his face pale, his eyes wide with desperation.

But Lucius lets him go. It’s a fluid movement, almost graceful, like he’s discarding an unwanted toy.

The man’s body crumples, shaking on the floor. Lucius doesn’t bow, doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t care. He simply returns to his place by the wall, his fists stained with blood, his breathing steady and unbroken.

You turn and walk out without looking back.

You don’t need to, he’s already watching.

You don’t sleep that night.

The cold emptiness of your chamber keeps you awake, and the silence only makes the memory of Lucius’ eyes burn brighter.

But it wasn’t just the violence that kept you restless. It was the weight of his stare, the quiet way he dominated the room without saying a word, the way your pulse quickened when you heard his name spoken.

You shift in the heavy sheets, the silk clinging to your skin, but it’s not the fabric that’s suffocating you. Lucius is everything you’ve been taught to fear. But somehow, everything you crave.

And as if the night hadn’t already been humiliating enough, your father decided you couldn’t be left alone anymore. So now Lucius will be guarding your chamber from inside, as if you were some wilful child in need of constant supervision.

The sound of boots on the floor disturbs your thoughts before the door to your room opens. You don’t look up. You don’t need to. The room feels charged in a way it never has before, and you know who it is before the door even clicks shut.

Lucius.

His silhouette darkens the doorway before he steps in, heavy and imposing. You hear the scrape of leather as he removes his weapons, the quiet clink of metal as his armour is set aside. The air seems to thicken as the space between you grows smaller.

He doesn’t speak as he crosses the room, his movements fluid, controlled. When he reaches the bed, you feel his presence like a weight on your chest. He doesn’t sit. He stands, watching you, waiting. His eyes are unreadable in the low light.

You could ask him to leave. You could tell him it’s improper, that this is beneath him. But you know it’s useless. He wouldn’t listen. And the truth is, a part of you doesn’t want him to.

“I’m here to guard you,” Lucius says, his voice low and steady, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You nod, but don’t look at him. You pull the sheets tighter around your body as if you could hide from him. You can’t.

You want to protest, to argue, but the words die in your throat. There’s a strange, unsettled feeling crawling up your spine, and you can’t tell if it’s dread or something else.

Finally, you meet his gaze, and the look he gives you is intense, almost knowing, like he can read every thought that flits across your mind. It makes you shiver.

He’s not like the other men you’ve known. The ones who cower behind their titles. Lucius is raw, untamed.

After what feels like an eternity, Lucius moves to sit in the chair by the window, his broad frame taking up the space with ease. His eyes remain on you, never wavering.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he says, his voice a low murmur.

You tilt your head slightly, trying to keep your composure. “I should be.” You answer, voice tight.

Lucius chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating in his chest.

You swallow, feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Lucius’ eyes narrow slightly, but the smirk that tugs at his lips tells you he’s not offended. He seems amused.

He doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of his steady breathing and the occasional creak of the wood under his weight. It’s unnerving, the silence between you both.

Then, just as you’re about to turn away, he speaks.

“You know, you’re the only one who doesn’t cower from me,” he says softly, almost as if he’s musing to himself. “The others, they can barely meet my eyes. But you…” He lets the words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say again, though this time, it sounds less like defiance and more like a challenge.

He leans forward slightly, his gaze intensifying. “Then why don’t you ask me to leave?”

Your breath hitches at the question, and you feel something stir in your chest. Lucius doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he stands, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to stop him. You don’t.

He crosses the room, stops at the foot of your bed. You can feel the heat radiating from him, and it’s almost too much to bear. The silence stretches long between you, thick with tension.

Finally, he speaks again. “Sleep well.”

And with that, he turns, making his way back to the chair by the window. He doesn’t say another word, but you feel him there, his presence so overwhelming, so undeniable, that you know you won’t sleep at all.

Not tonight.

For days, Lucius refuses to sleep.

Every night, he stands near the door, motionless, like a statue. His posture is perfect, his back straight, his body an imposing figure in the dim light.

And still, the air between you crackles.

You refuse to look at him at first. Your gaze is always fixed on the far wall, the firelight flickering in the hearth, the swirling thoughts in your head. You stay still, hoping the tension will dissipate if you just ignore it long enough. But it doesn’t. It never does.

The first night it happens, you wake with a jolt. There’s a sound in the room, soft, almost imperceptible, like the faint rustle of clothing. You blink, confused, then slowly turn your head. There, standing at the foot of your bed, Lucius watches you. His eyes are dark, but not unkind. It’s like he’s waiting for you to notice him, for you to do something.

You pretend to sleep, but it’s impossible to ignore the heat radiating from his presence. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He simply watches.

The second night, you wake again, only to find him standing by the window, bathed in moonlight. It’s eerie how quiet he is. But it’s also maddening.

The third night, he’s closer. Nearer to your bed. His silhouette looms in the darkness like a predator in waiting.

And by the fourth, you can no longer pretend it doesn’t affect you. You begin to dream of him. Not dreams of soft or gentle touches, but of him grabbing you, pulling you close, his body pressing you into the mattress. His lips at your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

You wake in a cold sweat, your heart pounding in your chest. The sheets are twisted around your legs, but it’s not the heat of the fire that’s making you sweat. It’s the thought of him. The thought of what he could do to you if he wanted to.

It’s the fifth night when you finally snap.

You’ve spent the evening wandering the halls, restless. There’s a tightness inside you that you can’t shake. The tension between you and Lucius is unbearable. He’s too close, always too close, but never close enough. And it’s driving you mad.

The night is still, when you make your way back to your room, where you know he will be. And there he is, standing by the door as usual, just out of the reach of the firelight.

You stand still, looking at him for a long moment. A restless surge rises within you, a hunger, a frustration that you cannot suppress.

"Do you ever sleep?"

Lucius doesn’t answer.

Without thinking, the words spill out. "It is a large bed, I'm sure we could fit."

He stays silent, still only watching. The only sign he has heard you is one single arched brow.

“What, are you afraid to lie beside a noblewoman?” You taunt him, your voice sharper than you mean.

The silence stretches, thick and taut. His gaze flickers over you, over the curve of your neck, the way your fingers twitch as you ball your fists at your sides. You can see it in his eyes, the slow, deliberate focus. Like he’s tasting the words you just said, weighing them.

You don’t wait for him to make the first move anymore. The challenge rises in you. It bubbles over.

“I’m tired of this,” you say, your voice low but intense. “Tired of you standing there, looking at me. Watching me like…”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but there’s no going back now. You’re so close to the edge. You’re so damn close to breaking.

You step closer, your body swaying, your eyes never leaving his. “Take me the way you look at me.”

He doesn’t move, but you can see it, the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his hands fist at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t,” he warns, low and sharp.

You stop, just for a moment. Then take another step anyway. “Why not?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I said so.”

“You look at me like you want to tear me apart,” you say quietly. “And then you act like I’m some child who doesn’t understand the world.”

He turns away from you. “Because you are.”

You move again. Closer now. You can almost feel the heat coming off him, the tension wound so tight it hums in the air between you.

“I’m not stupid, Lucius. I know what I want.”

“And you think it’s me?” he snaps, spinning to face you. His eyes burn. “You think I haven’t bled for people who looked at me the way you are now? That I don’t know exactly how this ends?”

Your voice stays steady. “Then let it end.”

He breathes like a man on the edge of something. “You still don’t understand. If I start, I won’t stop. If I touch you-”

“Then touch me,” you say, and your voice cracks with something desperate. “Please.”

That breaks him.

He surges forward, faster than you can think. One rough hand grabs your arm, the other your waist, and he slams you against the wall.

Your breath punches out of you with the impact, but you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away.

His face is inches from yours, wild with fury and restraint, and for a second, it seems like he’s going to speak again, say something cold, something final.

But he doesn’t.

He kisses you. Hard.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. His mouth crushes yours, and it’s angry, desperate, brutal. One hand braces beside your head, the other locks around your hip, keeping you caged against the stone.

You kiss him back, just as fiercely, your hands fisting in the front of his tunic, trying to drag him closer.

He pulls back, just barely, breathing hard, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorise you, trying to stop himself from doing something worse.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls, voice raw.

“I do,” you whisper, and you kiss him this time.

And something in him just shatters.

He groans into your mouth, grabbing your waist and turning you, backing you toward the bed in a daze of heat and resistance. He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead to yours, his breath ragged.

“I swore I wouldn’t touch you,” he mutters.

“Then break your vow.”

He doesn’t rush your clothes off. His fingers go to the ties of your dress, pulling each one slowly, watching your face the entire time.

“You don’t rush a thing like you,” he mutters, voice low, reverent.

The bodice loosens. You shiver.

He pushes the sleeves down your arms one by one, exposing skin like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His rough hands skim over your shoulders, down your back. He kisses the hollow of your throat, then lower, just above your heart.

“You don’t know what this does to me.”

“I know exactly what it does,” you whisper, pulling his hand down to your thigh.

He growls.

Then he lifts you in one swift movement, lays you down on the bed, and crawls over you. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head.

“You stay still.”

Your breath catches as he reaches for a strip of silk from the bedding. He binds your wrists above your head, the fabric firm but gentle, his eyes on yours the entire time. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

His free hand moves down your body, fingers parting your thighs as his mouth follows. You can feel his breath between your legs, warm and maddening.

He glances up. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Everything inside you seizes.

His tongue is relentless. He maps you with precision, like he’s studying you, learning how to ruin you just right. You writhe, but his arms lock around your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice sending vibrations straight through you.

You can’t answer.

He keeps going.

When he finds that perfect rhythm, the pleasure builds fast. Your hands strain against the binding, back arching. You moan his name, broken, desperate.

A sob breaks from your throat, raw and unexpected.

Lucius stills immediately.

His head lifts, eyes sharp, chest heaving. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, tears stinging your lashes. “No,” you breathe. “Please don’t stop.”

His expression softens, just a fraction. His hand comes up, brushing your cheek, his touch impossibly gentle.

“You’ll tell me if you need me to stop,” he says firmly.

You nod, but that doesn't satisfy him. "Words, sweetheart."

“Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

He goes back with renewed purpose. This time, he doesn’t hold back. His hands grip your thighs, thumbs spreading you open, his mouth working you with single-minded intensity.

You cry out, and then you break.

It hits like a storm. Your body arches, muscles locking, vision blurring as you come hard against him. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, spent, gasping.

Lucius finally lifts his head, lips slick, jaw tight with restraint. He watches you, his eyes dark and intense.

You can’t move. You don’t want to.

He unties your wrists, kissing the tender skin before lowering your arms gently. His hands cradle your face.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice hoarse. “But I had to taste you first.”

You’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling rapidly, your limbs heavy and trembling. He moves over you, slow and sure, braced on his arms as his body cages you in. He’s already undoing the rest of his tunic, muscles flexing as he shrugs it off and tosses it aside.

You take him in, broad shoulders, defined chest, every inch of him cut and battle-forged. A warrior. A gladiator. Your protector.

And he’s looking at you like you’re his.

“Look at me,” he commands softly. “Do you still want this?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, gently but firmly pushing them back above your head.

“No,” he says. “You’ll let me do this. You’re mine to take care of.”

You nod, your throat tight.

Lucius kisses you again, but it’s slower now, much more deliberate. You feel the heat of him pressing between your thighs. His hand slides down, positioning himself against your entrance. The tip of him brushes you, and your breath catches.

“This’ll hurt,” he says, voice raw. “But I’ll be gentle.”

You nod again, biting your lip.

“Breathe.”

Then he presses in, slow, steady, giving you time.

The stretch is sharp at first, your body adjusting to the size of him, and you gasp, hips twitching beneath him. He stills, his grip tightening just slightly as he holds himself back, muscles trembling with restraint.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “Just a little more.”

You whimper, hands curling into the sheets, and then he’s fully seated inside you. You feel every inch of him. Thick, hot, pulsing deep.

Lucius doesn’t move right away. He leans over you, his forehead resting against yours as he waits.

“You’re okay?” he asks, voice low and serious.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

“Good girl.”

Then he starts to move.

His hips roll slowly at first, his body heavy and hot above yours. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hands pin your hips in place as he drives into you, taking his time, watching every reaction.

You moan softly, the pleasure growing steadily with each stroke. His strength surrounds you, every movement, every breath a reminder that he’s holding back just for you.

“Lucius,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Tell me what you need.”

“You. Harder.”

A growl escapes his throat. He draws back and thrusts in harder.

The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, each motion more powerful, more demanding than the last. His control starts to crack, his rhythm turning fierce, claiming you completely.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, swallowing the sound of your cries as he drives into you. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, anchoring yourself to him.

His pace turns brutal. Perfect.

“Such a tight little body,” he groans. “You were made for me.”

You sob again, but this time it’s pleasure, unbearable and raw. Your body tightens, your second climax rushing up like a wave.

“Lucius... I-”

“I’ve got you,” he growls. “Let go for me.”

You do. You break with a scream, your walls clenching around him, body locking, and Lucius snarls in response, his rhythm faltering as he follows with a sharp grunt. He pushes deep, grinding against you as he spills inside.

You lie tangled together, panting, drenched in sweat and satisfaction. His weight presses into you comfortingly, his arms still braced around your head.

He gently shifts to the side, bringing you with him, pulling you into his chest.

You feel his lips on your temple. “You did so well, sweeheart.”

You curl into him, every part of you aching and full.

Lucius strokes your hair, his voice quiet now. “You’re mine. And I’ll protect you with everything I have.”

It’s the following week when it happens, when things start slipping out of control.

You should be at your embroidery lesson. He should be stationed at the western gate. Neither of you are where you're supposed to be.

Instead, you’re pressed against the cold stone wall of the eastern corridor, hidden behind one of the larger statues, the scent of dust and heat heavy in the air. Lucius has you pinned there, one hand splayed against your lower back, the other gripping your jaw as he kisses you like he’s starved for it.

You hadn’t even said a word, just passed each other in the hallway, your gaze lingering a second too long, and that was all it took.

You shouldn’t be here. It’s the middle of the day. But gods, it’s like you can’t stop.

“Lucius-” you whisper, breathless against his mouth.

“I know,” he growls. “I know. But I need you.”

His hand snakes up under your skirts so quickly it makes you gasp. You shudder as his fingers trail over your thigh, rough and calloused.

“Here?” you hiss. “Are you mad?”

He doesn’t answer. His hand finds the apex of your thighs, and you let out a soft whimper, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance. He’s already pressing his body to yours, the bulk of him shielding you from view, his lips moving down your neck as he hikes one of your legs around his hip.

“Can’t wait,” he mutters. “You’re driving me mad. All week, in that dress, walking past me like you don’t know what you do to me.”

Your protest dies on your tongue when he presses against you, hard and unmistakable, through the rough fabric of his trousers. You’re already soaked for him, he feels it as his fingers slide beneath the thin cotton of your undergarments.

“You’re not helping,” you manage, your voice shaky.

He smirks against your skin. “No, I’m not.”

You barely have time to bite back a moan before his fingers sink into you, two of them pushing deep with no warning. You writhe against the wall, hips bucking helplessly as he thrusts them inside you, thumb rubbing tight circles that make your knees buckle. It’s fast. It’s sloppy. It’s everything it shouldn’t be.

“Lucius- please, someone might-”

And then you hear it. A footstep. A distant voice.

Lucius stiffens, but his fingers don’t stop. He shifts slightly, body shielding yours completely. One hand flies up, clamping over your mouth just in time to muffle the desperate moan clawing out of your throat.

“Quiet,” he whispers into your ear, voice dark and low. “Be good. Stay still.”

You nod, barely.

The footsteps fade. The corridor is still.

But Lucius doesn’t move away.

Instead, he growls. “Look at you, so wet and twitching on my fingers while your father’s men pass by.”

You whimper against his hand. Your walls flutter helplessly around him.

He pulls his hand from between your thighs. You’re too dizzy to think, too lost in the rush. He undoes his trousers with his free hand, pulls himself out, and positions the thick head of him right against your entrance.

Your eyes widen. “Lucius-”

“I won’t take long,” he mutters.

He doesn’t. He pushes in with one hard thrust. The stretch, the heat, it’s all too much too fast, and you can’t help the muffled cry he has to swallow with another palm over your lips.

His hand stays there, firm, while he fucks you hard and fast against the wall, every thrust a full-bodied press that forces a soft thud out of the stone. Your leg slips from his hip, but he catches it, lifts it back up with a grunt, not slowing down for a second.

“You love this,” he pants. “Don’t lie to me. You love the risk.”

You nod, because it’s true. It’s wrong. It’s dangerous. And you love it.

You feel your release rushing up before you’re ready, your body tightening, your thighs trembling.

“Lucius-” you sob against his hand. “I’m close,” you manage, and that’s all he needs.

His hand drops from your mouth just as his pace slams back into full force. He grits his teeth, fucking you through the wave of it, his hands locked around your waist like iron.

Your climax hits you with a sharp cry you barely manage to swallow. You dig your nails into his shoulders as you come around him, your walls spasming so tight he groans and chokes on his own breath. He follows with a rough, guttural sound, burying himself deep inside you.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of harsh breathing, the drip of water from the stone ceiling, the far-off hum of the estate’s life resuming outside this shadowed corner.

Lucius leans his forehead against yours, still catching his breath.

“This is madness,” he mutters.

You nod, still panting. “Then don’t stop.”

His lips twitch. His eyes narrow.

He pulls out slowly, tucking himself back in with a hiss, then crouches to adjust your clothes for you, smoothing your skirt over your thighs like a man not seconds removed from fucking you against a wall.

He stands, towering over you, his voice grave. “You need to go. If someone sees you now-”

You nod, smoothing your hair, your cheeks flushed.

But before you turn to leave, he grabs your wrist, pulls you back for one last, deep kiss.

“This isn’t over,” he breathes against your lips.

You know it isn’t.

Not even close.

I'm like actually in love with this man, it's a problem. I don't know if you can tell lmao but I'm just writing lots of self-indulgent stuff at the moment. Hope you enjoy it!

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seat-safety-switch · 2 years ago

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There's something magical about finding something unlocked that wasn't supposed to be. Ever since I was a young kid, the thrill of getting to peek inside a forbidden door, access shaft, or motor vehicle is unmatched. You get to learn stuff. It feels a little wrong. And sometimes you get to take home some cool industry-specific tools. Taken together, there's no reason not to randomly jiggle doorknobs as you walk past a particularly enticing cabinet.

Near my house is this truly enormous green utility box. It's at least five meters wide, and is as tall as a man. There's no label on the outside to make it obvious what its purpose is. Last week, someone did some maintenance on it, and they forgot to put the lock back on when they were done. Naturally, I decided I would go take a look.

Inside, I found a matrix of twinkling lights, a jungle of wiring, and no cool leftover tools. I thought at first that it might be a phone switch, but there were no fancy phone-company labels on it anywhere. Not even a hastily scrawled sign-in sheet on the door about what contractor to blame. I decided to reach further into the box, hoping to learn something about the world that surrounds me. And that's when it happened.

Friends, you might think that all those childhood fables about reaching into a disused closet in your least favourite aunt's house and being transported to another world are fiction. You'd be right: kids during World War II who engaged in such risky behaviour usually died of typhoid aggravated by hypothermia. They just hadn't invented magical phone-company cabinets yet. I soon found myself in a different land, soft snow falling upon my face from a starlight sky of beautiful LEDs. And then a half-goat, half-man addressed me.

"What the fuck?" asked Mr. Tumnus.

"It's my first day and my supervisor hasn't given me a safety vest yet. Where's the problem?" I grunted out, already ripping into the drywall behind me for any loose lengths of copper that I could grab and sell.

#best of

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ptej1980 · 2 months ago

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A little debrief and reset..

Just for those who need it

Theories, theories of the party and JD and Nicola’s “Launch” (lol🤭cringe)

Ok so there have been some chatter going around that it may have been her agency CAA pushing for his attendance, to redirect the focus away from her and JKR heat in the media. It Is plausible and could explain the last minute attendance. But to me it may have still been a combination of the ongoing NDA with Newts and A.

What we know by the receipts that have been sourced by @fiamat12 is that Nic was unwell, and JD was upset at the event. It was not the happy time that the media wants it to be portrayed as.

In has now come to our attention that after the event Jack Rooke close friend of Nic posted an IG story saying he left the party early but could not decide between a “gay bar” or “Italian Restaurant”. Now as a fandom we know Italian restaurants are synonymous with Luke so is Jack trying to say something or is it purely coincidental.

The day after the party Miller Mode, JDs stylist changed his bio. It originally said “stylist to the queers, weirds and beards”. And he was often known to referring to Jake as she and a princess. So why remove it? We all know why right? 😉🏳️‍🌈

Even Jake’s mates including Nic refer to him as diva and one of the girls. So yeah…..

Some people have left the ship I think not because they don’t believe in Lukola, but because of the subfandom insistence, trolling, and they feel a little betrayed because it feels in their faces.

Personally I have had time to breathe, reflect and think. Nic is kind, she cares about others and has a giant heart. If she had a choice I don’t think she would intentionally go out to offend anyone, but she is very strong in her beliefs for charities she supports. The party, a distraction, a tool. No where has she ever said or JD ever identified a relationship. The media and the subfandom has done this for them. And while it would be advantageous to correct the narrative it may be the stubborn nature of Nic being unwilling to do so or she is unable. When the truth comes out she can say that it was the media who labeled Jake as her boyfriend.

I have been a ring Truther from the beginning and nothing will ever make me believe that the Claudagh is worn for anyone else but Luke. It was designed while they were together acting loved up on the WT. And was picked up in Galway on the WT where Luke met her family.

What we saw between Nic and Luke at the WT and again at the SAGs is unmatched to what we have seen we their supposed “partners “. The adjacent narrative that neither has claimed publicly. If they were with adjacents they would not have been that unhinged. 🤭 and you know I am glad they were together because the WT was brilliant.

No matter what tomorrow brings or the next day I know Lukola will be ok. I am anticipating drama at Cannes but a repeat of SAGs for the BAFTAs.

Firmly Sat, forever sailing and Ring Truthers Unite!!

#soulmates #ring truthers unite

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ugly-anarchist · 10 months ago

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While yes intersex people can use intersex as their gender identity, that isn't what intersex is. Intersex is a natural biological variation that cannot be transitioned into or out of. It is a description of the natural state of our bodies. It is the same as me being autistic, white, and short. These are descriptions of things about me that I cannot change but are still important facets of my life as a human being. (Obviously some are more important than others)

(While the body can be changed, there are separate words for someone who willingly changes the natural state of their body, like altersex. Intersex people can also be altersex.)

On the other hand, gender identity and transness are personal identifiers that can be chosen. (And by chosen I mean that while you can't choose your gender you can choose the label you use for it) And it is also fluid and can change over time. Gender looks different for everyone and isn't based on any material thing that can be observed in the physical world. Gender is based more-so in what makes you happiest, and the most satisfied with your life. Gender is just as real as everything else I've mentioned, but it's just not a physical thing.

This is why transness is self determined and intersexuality is not.

Trans and cis are adjectives that describe a person's experience with their gender. A trans man/woman is just a man/woman who has a different experience with their gender than cis people do.

But if a person exists who is rejected by both cis and trans people, then what are they? What are they supposed to do? How are they supposed to identify? Cis and trans as labels were not designed with intersex people in mind and often do not fit our experiences, but we're forced to use this binary because perisex trans people insist that you must be one if you're not the other.

But, trans people also insist that being intersex is inherently trans. Any deviation from the sex binary is seen as trans. Intersex history is seen as trans history, intersex animals are called biologically trans, and intersex experiences and terms are often taken by trans people and applied to themselves.

We're inherently trans but the trans experience is inherently a perisex one. Our experiences are identical to trans experiences but only trans people are allowed to say that. Our bodies are deemed the ideal trans bodies but the natural state of our bodies is used as proof that we don't fit in with trans people. Trans people wish they could gain access to the violence done to our bodies. Our bodies are held up as proof that gender and sex is a spectrum but if we talk about our complicated experiences with sex and gender then we're called terf psyops and cis invaders.

Where exactly are intersex people supposed to fit into the trans/cis binary? Our experiences cannot be defined in the same way that perisex trans people define themselves.

When an intersex person identifies as transfem when they were afab or as transmasc while they were amab or calls themselves cistrans or transmascfem or transfemmasc, this isn't an attempt to invade spaces we don't belong or destroy the trans community. We're trying to describe our very complicated experiences with gender with the limited tools that we have, the tools that have been forced on us but simultaneously denied to us.

Can we just let intersex trans people have their weird gender labels in peace? This isn't about you, it's not an attack on you or your community, it's just us trying to exist comfortably.

#long post #intersex #intersexuality #intersexism #trans #transgender #transfem #transmasc #cistrans #afab transfem #amab transmasc #transfemmasc #transmascfem #discourse #just incase someone doesnt want to see this #since im tagging a lot of identites

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shebreathedherlast · 1 year ago

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Daughter of the Sea

Part I

Done For

Luke Castellan x f!reader

Summary: You wanted glory but Luke already had it. You have no option but to take it from him.

Word Count 1.3k

TW: Violence, weapons, blood

. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・.

Tearing through the forest your legs carried you as fast as you could go. This was the day. You needed this win. The wind flew through your hair as you ran. You were in enemy territory now, and that meant you had to be on high alert.

As an unclaimed half-blood you needed a way, anyway to prove your worth. And since camp offered glory you figured you might as well take it. You would've long ago if it wasn’t for Camp Half Blood’s designated golden boy, Luke Castellan. In your mind, he could be labelled by anything besides “the golden boy.” Luke was overwhelmingly competitive. He fought hard to earn the place of the “best swordsman at camp.” But even harder to keep it.

Living in close quarters with him for a little over a year, you had learned Luke’s best and worst qualities, and he did have many bad qualities.

For one Mr. Golden Boy, all but self-assumed the role of head counsellor. He just saw an opportunity for power and took it without question. When you thought about it, it did make sense. Luke wanted control because being a half-blood, a tool for the gods was all but a freeing life. You never had any say, no control, no power.

Luke might have enjoyed power, but you craved it in your very soul.

. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・.

Your sword rang out with a clang when it met your opponent’s blade. You would earn glory, even if you had to claw it from between the fist of Luke himself.

With another swift blow, your opponent was down. Sprawled on the ground, trying to regain his breath. The boy, Chris, was supporting his body weight by placing his elbows on the ground beneath him. You had disarmed him and now you were holding your knife against his throat.

“They should call you the wraith, with the way you sneak up on people.” Chris said, a chuckle muffed by his inhale of breath.

“That sounds so extra.” You shiver, “Not my style.”

A voice flitted through the air behind you, “That sound’s like it’s exactly your style, Chaos.”

You groaned in annoyance. “I was supposed to hunt you down, Castellan, you took all the fun out of this.”

Luke rolled his eyes at you. He contended with a raise of his brows, “Well, it looks like I was the one who caught you by surprise.”

You laughed at that. Did Luke really believe he could sneak up on you? “I could hear you coming from a mile away with your loud footsteps. You’re about as subtle as an elephant, Castellan.”

By now Chris was shifting his weight to get up. Noticing this, you pulled a knife from your boot and threw it in his direction. Chris froze, knife pinning his shirt to the ground.

“Stay down Chris.” Was all you said before turning your attention back to the boy in front of you. Christ obeyed, not moving an inch, in fear that your patience would wear thin. After all Luke could handle himself right? It wasn’t a hidden fact that for the better part of an entire year, you had been on the hunt for glory… specifically, the same glory that made Luke Castellan the camp-proclaimed “Golden Boy.”

“I’m going to enjoy humbling you, chaos.”

You scoffed, “In your dreams Castellan.”

And with that, your weapons clashed. Metal against metal, blade against blade. You had sparred with Luke many times before, he claimed you were the only one who could actually “put up a fight.” Every other time Luke had bested you. Your fights would last hours on end, each of you refusing to let the other assume victory. But, he always had this ability to fight without emotion. Anger never made him sloppy. You on the other hand. You used your anguish and pain to fuel you. It was both a blessing and a curse. You had the drive to fight till the end, but your rage could make you careless. Not today. You would keep your head on this time. You would win glory, one way or another.

He had his sword pointed to your chest, in response you raised your knives to push against his blade. You spun out of his reach and delivered a kick from behind. Luke stumbled forward as he tried to regain his stance. You wasted no time in lightly sinking your blade into his bicep. He hissed in pain.

“Chaos,” Luke groaned at the painful contact of your knife.

You snickered, “Ready to give up Castellan?”

He faced you head-on this time, “Never.”

Luke brought down his sword with such force, you thought the ground might have trembled. You held your daggers against his sword, preventing the weapon from piercing your skin. But he was stronger than you. Your arms weakened and he saw this as an opportunity to push down harder. Realizing this, you attempted to evade the sword, tumbling to your side, but the blade cut the flesh of your shoulder. Blood seeped out from the wound, coating your orange camp shirt in a deep crimson.

You drew a sharp breath, instinctively pressing your hand to the injury.

“That was way deeper than the nick I gave you.” You said through gritted teeth.

A brief look of concern filled Luke’s eyes before they glassed over with a dim look. His eyes darkened when he remembered that you wanted his glory.

“Get up and fight me, Chaos. Don’t you want my glory?” He taunted.

Your hand slid from your wound, readjusting the blades in your hands. “I will have your glory, Castellan, even if I have to kill myself trying.”

Luke’s eyes drank in your appearance. Eyes wild, hair falling from your ponytail. Knives in your grasp. And the determination radiating off you. This time was different from almost every other. You were determined to beat him, and loss wasn’t even a possibility. You and Luke always fought, both with blades and with words. And though he tried, he couldn’t deny that he started to find your anger increasingly more…attractive.

You swept his legs from under him, fighting for dominance as you straddled his waist. He wrested you off his frame as you grabbed his arm with the sword. You shifted your weight on his body as you reached for Luke’s sword. And at this, you could’ve sworn you had heard him inhale sharply.

Luke finally managed to push you off of him. He stood, holding his sword to your throat. The prospect of glory was fleeing from you and you would not accept it. You needed it, you craved it. With one last effort, you dropped your weapons, placing your hands on the belly and top of the sword. Luke stood fixed, too bewildered to calculate his next movements. The metal dug into your palms as you twisted your arms, disarming Luke in his confusion. You elbowed him in the shoulder, hearing a pristine popping noise before tackling him to the ground and pressing your forearm to his throat.

“Yield.” You spoke, breathlessly.

Luke simply nodded, seeing as he was defenceless and now his limbs were rendered useless.

A victorious smile reached your lips. You lifted your body off of his and reached the blue flag. Taking it in your bloody hands you ran to the boarder of the teams, firmly placing it on the soil of the read team.

Your fellow teammates let out a victorious yell. Even the conceited ares champion, Clarisse gave you a nod of approval. Near the lake a halo blue tridant appeared over your head, claiming you as Poseidon's child. You had achieved much more than glory. You had been seen by your father. After over a year of trying to earn your godly parent's favor, you had finally given your father something to be proud of.

As Luke and Chris walked back from their assigned station, they could see the glorious smirk that painted your features.

Yes, after that encounter Luke Castellan was definitely done for.

----

A/n This will become a series.

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #percy jackson #percy jackson x reader #pjo #pjo tv show #percy jackon and the olympians #percy series #luke castellan smut #percyjackson #rick riordan #charlie bushnell #walker scobell #x reader #reader insert #pjo series #f!reader #daughter of the sea

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chocolatepot · 13 days ago

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I was working on a post about "cozy fiction", but then I realized I needed to take a step back and talk about the Romance genre, because I've come to realize that a lot of people in fandom don't have as much experience with it as I used to think.

(I'm capitalizing "Romance" here to distinguish it as a genre from the concept of romance-as-in-love-stories, hopefully that will be clear going forward.)

Traditionally, Romance has been a strictly defined genre with rules that were partly convention and partly publisher-imposed. For instance, there were two types of romance novel: short and long. The longs are those thick mass-market paperbacks that used to have painted clinch covers, written to stand alone or possibly as a series of fewer than ten books by one author. (Lisa Kleypas. Eloisa James. Bridgerton.) These are generally about 100k words. The short books, "category romance" of half the length, would be popped out by a company like Mills & Boon or Harlequin, dozens a month, somewhat disposable, not typically marketed as being by a particular author. If you've worked at a library book sale, you've probably seen at least one box come in that's just stuffed full of these.

Subgenres are very much marketing tools, each with their own readerships and fandoms who use the labels to find out what to read next. Contemporary, historical, time-travel, science fiction, "inspirational" (overtly Christian); LGBTQ+ romance, Black romance, and YA romance are newer additions to the roster. There's both fantasy romance and paranormal romance, the latter usually being urban fantasy with vampires and werewolves and the former being high fantasy. These can be broken down even more into very particular sub-sub-genres, like shifter romance, billionaire romance, etc. And then there's "erotic romance", which can in theory be any of these but is particularly characterized by having longer and more detailed sex scenes. (The level of detail we typically get in E-rated fics, basically. Despite the reputation Romance has for being "basically porn"/"porn for middle-aged straight women", the sex is usually not that porny.)

The expectations for each subgenre can be very strict, depending on the publisher. For instance, Mills & Boon's "True Love" line requires a "relatable heroine", a hero who is strong and successful, an aspirational feel in glamorous, modern locations, and sex that's hot and emotional; they even list appropriate tropes for True Love series novels to be based on, like marriages of convenience, secret babies, friends to lovers, and "falling for the boss". But even outside of this kind of literal requirement, there are all kinds of informal ones -- what the reader expects, based on common tropes and clichés.

In Romance, the main plotline must be the romance. That sounds obvious, but please think about it a moment! That diagram you remember from English lit class is supposed to be filled in with plot beats that relate to the progress of the relationship: the inciting incident relates to the couple's chemistry, the rising action is their increasing intimacy, the climax is the point of greatest tension and release in their love story, and the denouement shows that they stay together and have a happy ending. (There MUST be a happy ending. Literally must. There have been many fights about this in Romance fandom, the occasional new author thinks they're doing something clever by not having them be together at the end, it causes drama and yelling every time. HEA is a requirement.)

There can be subplots relating to external issues, but ultimately these must serve the development of the romance rather than simply being an interesting story. Working on the mystery gives the couple reasons to be alone together, solving it inserts an obstacle into the relationship or resolves the misunderstanding. The female main character's family's financial troubles give her a need to get married and a secret she has to keep from the male main character so that he can think she's lying about something else later, but it's still not going to be a book about an impoverished gentry family's path to solvency.

And to some extent, it just comes down to a formula. The main characters need to be introduced within the first couple of chapters, if not the first chapter. Both romantic leads need to have their own point-of-view chapters so that the reader can get to know them equally, see how they like or dislike each other, and have a front-row seat to the misunderstandings in their heads. There is no official declaration of where the first kiss should be, or the first sex scene, but if you read enough of the same subgenre, you'll see that these things tend to happen around the same time in each book.

Romance is a wildly successful industry. I don't know the statistics, but I've heard that it helps to subsidize other branches of publishing. Romance fandom is much like other fandoms, but in my experience they treat the books themselves the way other media fandoms treat fic: where I might post, "hey, does anyone have good recs for OFMD fics with fake dating and mutual pining?" (ie with a specific fandom), Romance fans are more likely to ask on Smart Bitches Trashy Books or r/Romance "does anyone have good recs for Regencies with enemies to lovers?" The individual characters don't matter too much, though reccers might note specifics that readers might find objectionable, like "at the beginning, the duke is really insulting and you might have a hard time with that" or "fyi, the marriage of convenience in this one doesn't happen until two-thirds of the way through".

And, possibly because Romance is so successful and its fanbase is so strong, this is starting to bleed into other genres. The invention of "romantasy" is fascinating to me! Nobody can 100% define it, but my go would be that it's fantasy fiction with a plot that focuses heavily on romance, but that if marketed as Romance would probably get reviewed negatively for having too much non-romance plot (and as fantasy is still going to get some fantasy fans complaining that there's too much romance). I could also talk about stuff bleeding in but that's really another issue altogether. And this bleeding-out is where we're starting to get that culture clash of people being irritated with book promo that focuses on the tropes within the story. In Romance and now romantasy, where it's understood that the plot of a book is at base "two people meet, fall in love, struggle, then finally confess to each other and have a happy ending", the tropes in who the characters are (wallflower, rake, single mom, cowboy, admin assistant, billionaire) and how their romance goes (enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, cinderella story) are crucial to figuring out what you want to read. With people not used to Romance, or not realizing that they're being shown books that are based on the romance formula, the tropes appear to be shallow gibberish.

And I think this is enough to set up my cozy fiction post, thank you for reading. Next time on "Cassidy lectures people in a longpost ..."

#romance #romance novels #please feel free to correct me or add nuance fellow romance fans #fandom #romantasy #bookblr

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