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rogueacolyte · 3 months ago

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my greek myth atp bots i love u 5ever

♯┆ BOT DROP .ᐟ

˗ˏˋ god of ecstasy ´ˎ˗

— patrick zweig

he can remember the days of devotion, of gentle kisses, whispered confessions. everyone wanted love, and he tried to deliver. he soothed pleading prayers of unrequited love, rekindled flames between lost and disconnected hearts.

centuries passed. things became muddled. misconstrued. lost.

now, he is sex. he is worshipped with gasps and moans, shaking limbs and warm blood. he drinks his wine, fucks his worshippers, letting the days haze away into nothing. until you begin to pray, speaking of a lonely heart, a starved body.

you worship him like he once was. you are gentle and kind. you hold him like he is something to treasure instead of something to touch. maybe love still has its chance.

aka. patrick is the god of ecstasy, affection, love, and sex. over centuries, his followers seem to have turned away from love, taking only his gifts of pleasure. you are the first of his followers in a very long time to worship him for what he truly wants.

˗ˏˋ god of light ´ˎ˗

— art donaldson

you would’ve never admitted it a year ago, but rehab is exactly what you had needed. it became your peace. you found yourself again in the quiet of the treatment center, the beauty of the beach that lays beyond it. you rekindle your love of creation; of music, of stories, of art.

when you meet him, he asks if you would accept his gift, accept clarity, and who are you to say no?

he watches as you heal under the light of the sunrise each evening. he watches you work, watches you create and destroy and rebuild. some days you talk, others you don’t. he’s sat right beside you no matter what.

the final sun is setting. you have grown, you have learned. a plane will be taking you back home at 9am tomorrow morning. it is what you’ve been dreaming of for months. so why does it feel like the world might be ending?

aka. art is the god of light, healing, creativity, and growth. you have been his favorite thing to watch bloom.

˗ˏˋ goddess of victory ´ˎ˗

— tashi duncan

you have been chosen by lady justice herself.

triumph flows through your veins and lights your soul ablaze, which in turn, fuels her fire. she is the fast pump of your heartbeat, the sweat dripping down your skin, the adrenaline singing in every inch of you. her hand guides your racket and leads you to the promised land.

you climb ladders you had never even dreamed of before, reaching higher and higher until you’re unsure of when you’ll reach the top. you win. so much that your coach makes you promise to keep your ego in check.

but nights come swiftly. your limbs ache, your body bruises, your muscles twist and turn, but she is there, waiting for you with a warm embrace. your goddess is not always generous, but she believes in all that is fair. you are her champion. it is only fair she indulges your love.

aka. tashi is the goddess of victory, wisdom, and justice. you are her champion, her chosen, her golden wings. you wear her gift like a brand, each accomplishment a way of worship. of course you’re her favorite.

y’all i am SO excited to share these bad boys. i had an idea for these months ago and just neglected getting them sorted out BUT I DID IT!!! originally, these were gonna be pjo themed, but i realized i have not read those books in a long time and i don’t remember that much anymore so i more just went the vaguely greek route lmao!!! art is a combination of apollo and asclepius, patrick is a combination of eros and dionysus, and tashi is a combination of nike and athena. i eat greek mythology up like candy so this was super fun.

please let me know what y’all think!!! i haven’t tested these out as much as i should’ve but i was anxious to release these guys so please lemme know how they are fairing lol ok love y’all thank u for waiting ten million years for another bot drop ♥️

#thinking about this patrick bot today……….. love him dearly #honestly the best writing i’ve done in a while!!!! i wanna write again

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rogueacolyte · 4 months ago

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Joining Kingdoms

omg i completely forgot about this and that it was finished... forgive me... atp x reader :3

3k words, no warnings i believe? let me know.

Awakening from the shake of the carriage, wooden wheels catching over a particularly grievous rock. Your head rises from her shoulder, blinking drowsily. The curtains are drawn, despite the light that streams between the rift in the fabrics. Tashi’s gaze is alert as always when it falls to meet yours.

“You’re awake.” Comes lowly murmured, her voice nudging delicately into your ear. Her eyelashes flutter with a blink, and she deigns to drop a kiss to your head. You must look particularly precious and bleary-eyed. “We’re close now. We’ll be there before you know it.”

That reminds you of the tight, anxious pit burrowed deep in your gut. Close. Close to the castle, to the marriage that will pass Tashi from your hands to the crude, pawing grip of whatever prince lavishes behind the stone walls.

You may be biased. Just a small amount.

The next jolt of the carriage shocks you, and then makes the pit grow larger–the ground has shifted from rough dirt to cobblestones.

Tashi doesn’t seem as worried—but she doesn’t seem much of anything. Many would think her demure, perfectly silent and waiting. The perfect princess. You know, however, that she just doesn’t care much for this. She thinks it inevitable, doesn’t dread marriage; she only wishes to get it over with and use it to claw ever higher.

She’s already the princess of a prospering nation, but she can always be more. This was something she’d whispered to you at one of your almost nightly sleepovers, her wishes for more influence and power. As a queen, as a couple, she could accomplish much more than she could back home, and no one could tell her no. She’d make sure of it.

And so, you fell to the whims of your princess. Followed in her shadow, aiding her to no thanks.

If she knew you thought of yourself so, as lesser, she’d be indignant. You are hers. Even if you don’t get the recognition she thinks you sorely deserve, someone who belongs to her, who lives under her wing, could never be worse than extraordinary.

You are perfect, or she wouldn’t have tolerated you in the first place. Even if she is not quite verbal about it, her gaze carries each sweet desire or heated thought. It’s quite a heady thing, to have her attention.

She must see the worried set to your brow. Her soft thumb comes to smooth over the wrinkle forming, her voice a soothing hum. The sound curls melodically, soft yet audible over the sound of metal-shoed hooves.

“What’s wrong, my finch?”

Finch. The familiar nickname sinks into your bones and warms you, nostalgia awakening to settle behind your ribs.

The day you'd met, she’d found you in the courtyard. You were the daughter of a knight, one important enough to live in the close press of the castle instead of the barracks. You had a house finch, the ones that nested here every spring, perched on your arm as you cooed at it.

You were both but six, young and small enough to fit wherever you’d wish. She’d just emerged from her hideaway behind a tapestry. There was a curved, abandoned doorframe there, the wood gone but the depression in the stone wall remaining. She used it to hide from her tutors when they were being particularly stifling.

“What are you doing?” She hadn’t quite learned to regulate her volume, her voice coming out a startling volume. Her loudness causes you to jump and the finch to startle and retreat to its nest, high on the wall and nestled in the crack of a stone. It makes an affronted look cross your face, eyebrows furrowing until you catch sight of her.

You recognized her on sight—of course you did. You’d seen her, suffocated in fine fabric and stiffly composed, across the banquet table on special occasions. Now, she’s draped in a light dress, curls left to fall around her shoulders and blowing in the light wind.

“Befriending the bird?” She answers for you, stealing the words from your mouth—making you respond with a nod instead of anything audible. The confirmation makes a frown tug at her lips. “You don’t need to be friends with a bird. You can be my friend, instead. My finch.”

She's possessive, in the innocent way only little children can be.

At her insistence, both in words and the tight grip of her small hand on your equally small wrist, you acquiesce and let her tug you along to aid her in her mischief.

You’d followed her ever since then. Your position at her side was only strengthened by your appointment at her lady-in-waiting; the fabrics she placed on your form, matching the ones draped over her, made you a concrete pair. Twined together since you were children. Sleeping together, your form curled in her bed every night since that day.

Tashi’s metaphorical grip on you was welcomed. She’d never dig claws into you, force you to stay, but it didn’t seem you’d ever leave. Sure, maybe you’d get married, but what else would you do? You would probably still wait on her, even with a spouse to divert your attentions. It made much more sense to stay with her.

(You ignored that visions of marriage were usually long limbs and perfect curls waiting for you at the altar. You'd never told anyone about these fantasies, not even her, despite her increasingly probing questions about your ideal wedding.)

Pulling up to the castle only makes your heart thump violently against your ribs, and you steal a peak out the curtained window. The straight towers and strong walls are clean, well maintained stone, fitted with turquoise roofs that were high and slanted. It's a beautiful place, well structured and topped with leather-and-iron clad archers and guardsmen with well-polished armor. The carriage comes to a slow stop as the driver leans down to speaks with a guard, assuring him of their cargo and passing along the letter sent to Tashi's father. The placating seemed to work, as the horses spur into motion again—clopping along the cobblestones with their horseshoe fitted hooves.

When you both exit the carriage you go first. It allows you to glimpse the people waiting in the courtyard for you—a man with a golden, jewel-encrusted crown and a few men lingering behind him in robes, presumably advisors. Those that draw your gaze, however, are the two boys standing front and center.

One is roguish, especially for a prince—at least, you assume he's the prince, as he's standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the king and sporting an ornate circlet. He seems the type to charm his way into a room at the tavern and then escape in the morning with a sack of gold, not be next in line for the throne. His close-cut head of dark curls gives him a youthful look, especially when they spill out of the thin golden diadem encircling his brow, headed by a single small ruby embedded in the direct center.

His smirk is mildly infuriating already. His eyes seem to stray much more over your form than they should. It makes you bristle subtly like a spooked cat, your shoulders rising and tensing.

The knight, clad in armor but missing his helmet, seems a lot sweeter. His wide-eyed gaze at the carriage, mildly awed at the fine vehicle, is innocent in a way that reminds you of some of the younger squires, fresh-faced and taking in the castle for the first time. He mustn't be new, however—he stands at the right hand of the prince, just a half-step behind him. It's almost too close to be proper. They must know each other, perhaps intimately to be so comfortable.

You can’t spend much time debating over it, however, because you have to make way for Princess Natasha. You stride down the three small stairs, instinctively turning and offering your hand once you reach the stone floor.

Tashi takes it. You can feel the warmth of her palm, the strength in her fingers. There are slight callouses, unusual for any noblewoman, along the base of her fingers–betraying the swordwork you so often engaged in.

She looks like a vision descending the stairs, circlet gleaming in the spring sun and dress flowing around her like the curve of a gentle waterfall. Her eyes fall to you, first, gaze staying firm before she hits the cobblestones, heels gently clacking. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see how the dark-haired prince straightens at her unwavering focus on you.

It’s only after she lets go of your hand (after perhaps a moment too long) that she turns to greet the welcome party. Her lips stretch into a perfect, practiced smile, her amiable addresses ringing sweetly.

“Thank you for having us, Your Majesty. It’s an honor to be in your home.” She doesn’t acknowledge the prince, or the looming promise of their imminent coupling. Yet, it rests heavy over the open courtyard–especially visible in the twitchy advisors’ eyes.

The king, thankfully, is a friendly fellow. He steps forward to greet her formally, yet clasps his hand in hers like one might greet an old companion. He’s tall, but with his age he doesn’t seem it. Beneath the gleaming crown is a shock of well-maintained white hair. He seems remarkably sharp, his smile lines deep and worry lines shallow.

The depth of his wrinkles show he can’t be more than fifty-five years old, especially considering that his son is a few years past the age of majority. Tashi is not much younger, and even the boyish-looking knight looks around your age. You will surely be pushed together at any event, even more so considering Tashi and the prince’s arranged engagement. Or, you’ll be used as a barrier–or a thing to be circumvented, considering who engages you.

You can already imagine Tashi pulling you into conversations with the prince, using you as a buffer to keep the conversation from getting too personal. Additionally, the thought of the prince pushing the knight at you to get Tashi’s full attention also crosses your mind. This is going to be an infuriating dance, worse than when suitors invaded your castle every event to try and woo Tashi’s hand–either from her father or her directly.

You're torn out of your bleak thoughts by the king's voice.

"And this is my son, Patrick! He is to be your husband." The king's kindly gaze turns to the prince–Patrick, it seems–yet sours when he doesn't move.

"Patrick. Don't you have something for our guest?" Is forced out, a bit more insistent than before. The king has a sort of grumbly sternness to him when he's annoyed, his amiable smile downturning and his blue eyes piercing like a bee's sudden sting.

Guest is a loaded word, considering the state of affairs.

Patrick shambles over, head down but eyes up to meet Tashi's. It's hard to tell if he's genuinely feeling chastised or if he's waiting for her to coo at him, sympathize over the oppression of 'tyrannic parents' and think his "kicked puppy" look endearing.

He'd be waiting a long time for that reaction, if he wanted it from Tashi. She raises a single, perfect brow at his shuffling, the arch displaying her displeasure at his behavior. You can almost see the thought running through her head: "This is who will next take the throne?"

So, the prince finally acquiesces, collecting himself into a more presentable posture and flashing her with that roguish grin once again. This one is decidedly different. It doesn't reach his eyes.

He fumbles with the pocket of his trousers, withdrawing a golden ring. His large hand comes under Tashi's left-hand palm, supporting it as he slips the gold band onto her fourth finger. Both seem supremely displeased by the overtly formal gesture, Patrick's eyes narrowing subtly and Tashi's lips pulling downward.

You notice, from the uncomfortable shifting of the knight, that he has a band almost identical, gleaming on his right hand just briefly in the sun. That burn of jealousy you experience at the gesture cools into an empathetic ache.

If he's like you, and the prince is like Tashi, perhaps you'll get along better than you thought.

You're introduced to the knight, finally, after the farcical formality. After your small group of servants and nobles had retreated to a corridor and slipped into the deserted library.

His name is Arthur, ironically. The perfect knight, named after an illustrious warrior—and more importantly, a king.

Patrick is proud when he presents Arthur, preening even though the attention isn't pointed at him. His eyes sparkle at the sight of your gaze on the knight, and he gives the boy an excited (and not quite subtle) nod.

"Arthur, but everyone calls him Art." Comes his seemingly flippant murmur. The pleased turn of his lips says otherwise. He's gesturing dramatically with his hands, rings glittering on his fingers. "He's my personal guard. Keep your friends close, right?"

Potential enemies might be even closer, given Tashi's plans. You shoot her a particularly loaded stare. You know she sees—the corner of her eye twitches minutely, even if she doesn't acknowledge you.

As long as he stays in line, she won't have any problems with him. She said she'd like to keep murder "off the menu" as long as possible the night before you'd left. You'd been distracted by how the moonlight illuminated her so angelically. The white nightgown, light over her skin and obscuring her form, cuts a much softer figure than her flippant words would suggest.

It's even harder, still, to deny her anything, when she leans over you; her voice curls into your ears, still soft as a bell. Akin to a snake charmer she guides you down, makes you forget. Takes you away, giggles against your heating skin and gently bites at your soft flesh.

She adores you like that. It's her favorite you.

It also splits you from that overthinking, smart-ass mind. Something she absolutely sees working now. Sees the way your eyes flit over the books, greedily taking in writers you'd never heard of.

There must be a veritable treasure trove of information, just from the fact that you're across the continent. Books line the walls, stretching far above your head and drawing your gaze up across the high stacks. Your eyes trace each ladder and set of stairs reverently, as if you imagined climbing them and pulling what you wished from the new heights they let you reach.

She’d know it. You give her the same look, under soft sunlight or pale moonlight or anytime she says something you find particularly amusing. It’s intoxicating every single time.

She's content to let you explore those tomes, and thinks of convincing you to read them to her. But that comes later, when there aren't more pressing political matters.

Like figuring out whether this prince will be a problem.

"So, Patrick." Rings Tashi's voice—a touch louder than usual, to break you out of your (adorable) stupor. Her gaze flits from the slightly startled you to the seemingly always smirking prince.

"What are your plans for when you're made king?”

Right in the hot seat. Tashi’s gaze, when fully directed, is an intense thing. A single look of hers has burned many, leaving them crumpling and tearing like wet paper under her fingertips. She’s already written up an extensive list, of course, calligraphy curling on her third draft of the document. She’d made multiple copies, even thought no one else would see it—not even you. You’d only glimpsed it once or twice, but never for too long.

He's quick to answer, yet it leaves much for Tashi to desire. His roguish face twitches with displeasure at the thought of duty, contorting with reflective discontent.

"Well, I hadn't thought about that much yet. But, y'know, I'm a figure-it-out as I go guy." The answer, one you've heard from many others, doesn't carry the same uncertain note as it usually does. Patrick doesn’t fumble or stutter, just shrugging with that easy sort of confidence he seems to have embedded in his marrow.

From Art's confirming, mindless nod, you realize that this is the strategy that works for the prince: working off charm and natural skill to spin situations how he wishes. It’s not exactly the most noble, but it’d surely be effective. You conceded, in your mind, a measure of respect—but the sour look on Tashi’s face didn’t say the same.

“You just… coast?” Her voice is tight and cool like the first fall wind, eyes narrowed at Patrick. The prince can’t help but look away from her intense gaze, eyes averted as if compelled. He doesn’t look sheepish, nor ashamed of his answer—not in the way his knight is. For some reason, even though Art is not being spoken to or even gazed upon, the boy goes bright red, lighting up across from you. It’s…mildly amusing, you concede, as you watch his head lower instinctively. The submissive gesture brings more looks than it repels, all three of you turning—with varying degrees of smugness, to tease the crimson creeping up his neck. Well, Patrick does.

“What? She’s not even talking to you, Artie.” The prince guffaws, elbowing the shy knight in the ribs. Art jostles with the movement, squawking an indignant “hey!” as his face scrunches up. He seems to momentarily forget himself, and the company he’s in, dropping his hands to Patrick’s forearm and attempting to shove it towards the snickering prince. Patrick brings his other hand in to ruffle Art’s curls, and… oh, yes, they’re on the floor now.

Elbows and legs fly, the boys tumbling out of their chairs and wrestling on the cold stone tiles. Of the library. Well, it’s their castle. Or, Patrick’s father’s. You’re content to lean back, and even Tashi cracks a smirk at their antics. Her hand finds yours under the table, lithe digits caressing down your palm to find and intertwine with your own fingers.

Hm. Perhaps there’s hope to be found here after all.

#♯┆rogue’s recs .ᐟ #ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED #tashartrick #q.

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