THAToneFREAKwriter

i found a website link for it, keep in mind this is just random I'm not sure I'd its fully safe but I've been using it an I haven't been hacked or anything. it works pretty well you just put the two heights you want and click 'compare' for it to show you. (bad grammar sorry this was kinda rush typed.)

Pink lightning, a thalia grace x son of Aphrodite fanfiction.

Pink lightning: Sneak peak of a requested fanfic.

Pink lightning, a thalia grace x son of Aphrodite fanfiction.

The Unbelievable, Undeniable, Absolutely Ridiculous Love Story of Thalia Grace and You

There are certain moments in your life that split everything into before and after.

The moment your mother, Aphrodite, claimed you at age twelve, and the entire camp watched golden light swirl around you like you were some kind of cosmic beauty pageant winner, and you'd immediately tripped going up the steps to cabin ten and faceplanted in front of everyone.

Before: you were just a kid.

After: you were just a kid who'd faceplanted in front of a goddess.

The moment Percy Jackson returned from his first quest, covered in monster dust and looking like he'd been put through a washing machine set to divine wrath, and you'd accidentally burst into tears because his hair was so damaged, Percy, do you not own CONDITIONER.

Before: you were a helpful bystander.

After: you were Percy Jackson's unwilling hair consultant.

And then there was this moment.

The moment the pine tree on top of Half-Blood Hill started to move.

You were sitting on the Aphrodite cabin porch, reorganizing your emergency makeup kit, which contained forty-seven lip glosses, eight eyeshadow palettes, two concealers, one setting spray that could survive a hurricane, literally, you'd tested it during a hurricane, and a tiny pair of scissors that had once cut through a monster's tongue during a particularly nasty attack, because beauty is war and war is beauty and you were a child of Aphrodite, damn it, when you heard the screaming.

Not panicked screaming.

Confused screaming.

Which was, in many ways, worse.

You looked up.

The pine tree, Thalia's tree, the one that Chiron always got quiet about, the one that made Annabeth's eyes go distant and sad, was shaking. Its branches were retracting. Its bark was softening. And from inside the trunk, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis made of wood and divine sacrifice, a figure was unfolding.

She hit the ground like a dropped cannonball.

Black hair, shot through with electric blue. Leather jacket. Combat boots. Eyes that were literally sparking with residual lightning energy. She looked like someone had taken the concept of punk rock and given it a heartbeat and a grudge.

A satyr approached her cautiously.

She punched him.

Not hard. Not cruelly. Just reflexively, like her body's default setting was defend, and the satyr had been the nearest target.

Then she did something interesting.

Before anyone could react, before Chiron could step forward, before the crowd of gathered campers could do more than gawk, Thalia's eyes swept the clearing. Not looking for threats. Looking for weaknesses. Mapping exits, identifying the youngest campers, calculating distances. It was the most efficient threat assessment you'd ever seen, and it happened in approximately half a second, and then it was gone, replaced by a scowl so aggressive it could have curdled milk.

She positioned herself, without seeming to, directly between the nearest cluster of young campers and the tree line. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like protecting strangers was just something her body did on autopilot.

"Oh," you breathed.

Because here's the thing about being a child of Aphrodite that nobody tells you. It's not about looking at someone and thinking they're hot. Anybody can do that. It's about looking at someone and seeing them. Seeing the shape of their soul. The architecture of who they are. The story they carry in their bones.

And when you looked at Thalia Grace, standing there in the clearing, tree sap in her hair, fists raised, eyes wild and furious and so deeply, profoundly lost, you saw something that made your chest physically hurt.

You saw a girl who had died to save her friends and woken up to a world that had moved on without her.

You saw a girl who was terrified of being soft because soft things get broken.

You saw a girl who needed someone to laugh with her so she didn't have to cry alone.

You saw a girl who would throw herself in front of a blade for someone she'd known for thirty seconds, but who would absolutely refuse to let anyone do the same for her.

And then she locked eyes with you across the clearing.

And you, being the graceful, eloquent, devastatingly charming child of Aphrodite that you were, tripped over your own makeup bag, careened forward like a deranged flamingo, knocked over an entire tray of strawberry scones that the Hephaestus cabin had been delivering, sent the scones flying in a perfect arc through the air, and watched in frozen horror as every single scone landed directly on Chiron's face.

The entire clearing went silent.

Chiron stood there, covered in scones and strawberry jam, blinking.

You stood there, covered in makeup and shame, blinking.

Thalia Grace looked at you.

Looked at Chiron.

Looked back at you.

And she laughed.

Not a polite laugh. Not a small laugh. A real, full-body, head-throwing-back, gasping-for-air laugh that cracked something open in her chest and let light pour through. She laughed like she hadn't laughed in seven years, which, technically, she hadn't, and the sound was so unexpected, so raw, so alive that several campers physically flinched.

"You," she wheezed, pointing at you, tears streaming down her face. "You just, and he, the SCONES."

"I'm so sorry," you whispered.

"Don't you DARE be sorry," she said, still laughing, still crying, still looking at you like you'd just given her the best gift anyone had ever given her. "That was, that was the most, I can't."

She couldn't finish the sentence. She was laughing too hard.

She stomped across the clearing, combat boots squelching in strawberry jam, and stuck out her hand.

"Thalia Grace," she said, grinning so wide it looked almost painful, like her face had forgotten how to make that shape and was relearning it in real time. "Daughter of Zeus. Former pine tree. Current, I don't know, something."

You shook her hand.

Her grip was iron. Her palm was warm. Static electricity crackled between your fingers and shot up your arm, making every hair on your body stand on end.

"I'm Y/N," you managed. "Son of Aphrodite. Current owner of forty-seven lip glosses. The scone thing was an accident."

"Good," Thalia said. "Accidents are the only interesting things that happen in this camp, I bet."

"You have NO idea."

She looked at you. Really looked, with those storm-blue eyes. And something shifted. Something clicked. Like two magnets finding each other in a universe full of noise.

"You're funny," she said.

"I literally didn't do anything."

"That's what makes it funny." She didn't let go of your hand. "You're my best friend now."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Best friend. You. Me. It's happening. I don't make the rules."

"You absolutely just made that rule."

"Too late. Can't take it back. We're best friends now. I'll fight anyone who says otherwise."

From behind you, one of your siblings whispered, "Oh no."

Another whispered back, "Oh yes."

And just like that, the before-and-after moment crystallized, and your life split into two neat halves.

Before: you were just a son of Aphrodite with too many lip glosses and a tendency to cause accidental chaos.

After: you were the best friend of Thalia Grace, and nothing, not monsters, not gods, not the fundamental laws of the universe, would ever be the same.

Being best friends with Thalia Grace was, to put it mildly, an experience.

It was an experience in the same way that being struck by lightning is an experience. Technically accurate. Wildly underselling it.

You learned that Thalia had three settings. Aggressive, more aggressive, and asleep. There was no in-between. She either looked like she wanted to fight God, understandable given who her dad was, or she was passed out in random locations like a feral cat that had simply decided it was nap time.

You found her asleep in a tree on Tuesday.

In the attic on Wednesday.

On the roof of the Big House on Thursday, which was how you learned that Chiron had been secretly installing safety nets because, and this was a direct quote, "Thalia Grace is not the first demigod to nap on the roof, and she will not be the last."

You learned that she ate like a starving wolf. Fast, aggressive, and with absolutely no regard for table manners. You watched her consume an entire plate of blue pancakes in approximately ninety seconds and then look around for more like a predator scanning the savannah.

You learned that she cursed in Ancient Greek when she was frustrated, which was often, and that the curses were creative in a way that made even Ares kids blush.

You learned that she had a laugh that could power a small city, but she only used it when she forgot to be guarded. The rest of the time, her smile was sharp and quick and defensive, like a knife being opened and closed.

You learned that her temper was not a joke.

The first time you saw it happen for real, not a threat, not a flex, but actual lightning-fueled rage, was during week one. A Ares kid had shoved a younger camper into the dirt for dropping a sword during training. The kid was maybe ten, shaking, trying not to cry.

Thalia went still.

Not tense. Still. The kind of still that predators get right before they strike. Her eyes went from their usual storm-blue to something electric, something crackling, and the air around her hummed with ozone.

"Pick him up," she said to the Ares kid. Quiet. Calm. The calmest you'd ever heard her.

The Ares kid laughed. "Or what, pine tree?"

The lightning bolt hit the ground six inches from his foot.

Not close enough to hurt him. Thalia would never hurt a camper. But close enough to singe the grass, close enough to make the air taste like copper, close enough to make a demigod who'd fought monsters his entire life go white as a sheet.

"I said," Thalia repeated, still quiet, still calm, "pick him up."

The Ares kid picked him up.

Thalia helped the ten-year-old brush the dirt off his shirt, told him his form was actually pretty good for a beginner, and walked away like nothing had happened.

You stood there with your heart hammering, because that was the most terrifying and the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen a person do, and you were a child of Aphrodite, you were supposed to be the one who understood beauty, but this was a different kind. This was the kind of beauty that had edges.

And you learned, slowly, carefully, in the way that you learned all important things, that underneath every layer of leather and lightning and fury, Thalia Grace was scared.

Not of monsters. Not of battle. Not of any of the things that would make a normal person scared.

She was scared of being left behind.

She was scared of not being enough.

She was scared that the people she loved would realize she wasn't worth staying for.

You knew this because you were a child of Aphrodite, and Aphrodite's real gift wasn't beauty. It was seeing. Seeing the love someone needed and knowing exactly how to give it to them.

And what Thalia Grace needed more than anything in the entire universe was someone who stayed.

So you stayed.

You also learned, in perhaps the most ironic discovery of your entire life, that Thalia Grace, daughter of Zeus, lord of the sky, wielder of thunder, was absolutely, catastrophically, unreasonably afraid of heights.

You found out on day five, when you suggested walking to the top of Half-Blood Hill to watch the sunset.

She went pale.

Not slightly pale. Vampire pale. The color literally drained from her face like someone had pulled a plug.

"I'm good down here," she said, very casually, leaning against a tree with her arms crossed like she was choosing to stand there and not because her legs had turned to jelly.

"It's a hill, Thalia. It's like forty feet."

"I'm aware of the elevation."

"It has a railing."

"I don't need a railing. I don't WANT a railing. I'm fine right here. On the ground. Where the ground is."

You stared at her. She stared back with the intensity of someone daring you to say something, anything, about the fact that the daughter of the sky god was refusing to go up a small hill because she might be able to see farther than usual.

"Are you afraid of heights?" you asked.

"No."

"That was a very fast no."

"Because the answer is obvious. No. Next question."

"Thalia."

"What."

"You're the daughter of Zeus."

"Observant."

"Zeus is the god of the sky."

"Also observant."

"The SKY, Thalia."

"I'm aware of what domain my father holds, Y/N. I'm also aware that the sky is terrible and should be avoided at all costs, and if you tell anyone about this I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your natural and unnatural life."

"You're afraid of heights," you said, because you were apparently committed to dying today.

"I am NOT afraid of heights. I have a healthy respect for the concept of gravity and the consequences of ignoring it."

"That's literally what afraid of heights means."

"It's DIFFERENT."

"How is it different?"

"Because I said so."

She wouldn't go up the hill that day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. It took two full weeks before she'd even walk to the top, and she did it with a white-knuckled grip on your arm that left bruises, her eyes fixed on the ground the entire time, and when she finally looked up at the sunset, she didn't say anything for a long time.

"Okay," she finally admitted. "That's almost worth it."

Almost.

She never got over it. Not really. Even years later, when she was queen of the gods and Olympus was technically her address, she would visibly tense every time she had to be somewhere high up. She'd grip your hand hard enough to hurt. She'd keep her eyes straight ahead. She'd never admit it, not once, not to anyone but you.

But you knew. And you always held her hand a little tighter when the ground got far away.

And what Thalia Grace needed more than anything in the entire universe was someone who stayed. Someone who held on when the ground disappeared.

So you stayed.

okay because aphmau lore is confusing as HELL sometimes 😭

i made a google doc for people who want to get into the roleplays/lore stuff easier 💜

it includes: ✨ the series in order ✨ basic lore explanations ✨ hidden details/things people might miss ✨ descriptions of what each series is about ✨ youtube links for every series

so if you’ve ever been confused about: “wait what comes after diaries” “why is this character here” “what timeline is this” or “where do i even START”

i made this for you 😭

hope you enjoy! an if there is any other information I should add let me know.

I made this because i previously wrote an absolutely unhinged Spencer Reid manifesto and apparently people ENJOYED watching me publicly spiral over fictional men with severe psychological problems.

so naturally my brain went:

“what if we did that again… but with Bakugo.”

and thus this disaster was born.

this essay/rant/psychotic caffeine-fueled breakdown was created purely for fun, sleep deprivation, and the scientific study of why Katsuki Bakugo is simultaneously:

a walking red flag

weirdly domestic

emotionally constipated

and basically an angry Pomeranian with a bedtime

if y’all want me to make more of these about other characters/shows PLEASE let me know because i will absolutely overanalyze them like a conspiracy theorist with six iced coffees and access to Google Docs.

i do not write essays anymore. i write psychological evaluations disguised as Tumblr posts.

anyway enjoy my descent into madness.

How close we are to the character’s mind

How much personality the narration is allowed to have

Once you understand that, third person stops being “neutral storytelling” and becomes a flexible tool you can actually control.

1. Narrative Distance (the main idea)

Think of third person like a zoom lens 📷

Far zoom → objective, factual, detached

Medium zoom → lightly filtered through character

Close zoom → inside the character’s thoughts

Very close zoom → thoughts and narration blend together

Most beginners stay too far away, which makes writing feel flat.

Most good fiction lives in close third person.

2. The Four Main Styles of Third Person

A. Strict / Professional Third Person (Distant)

This is the “security camera with grammar” version.

Example:

He entered the room. The students turned to look at him. He sat at the back.

How it feels:

neutral

factual

emotionally distant

no narrator personality

When to use it:

reports or formal writing

suspense scenes where distance builds tension

moments where you want readers to interpret everything

👍 Strength: very clear and controlled 👎 Weakness: can feel emotionally flat

B. Close Literary Third Person (Balanced) 🙂

This is the most common style in modern fiction.

Example:

He entered the room and immediately regretted it. Everyone was looking at him. Of course they were.

How it feels:

inside the character’s perspective

emotional but still structured

easy to read and natural

When to use it:

most novels

character-driven stories

emotional scenes that still need clarity

👍 Strength: strong balance of clarity + emotion

C. Voice-Driven Third Person (Personality Heavy) 😏

Here the narration has attitude.

Example:

He entered the room like it owed him money and had been avoiding him for three years. Everyone looked up. Great. Just great.

How it feels:

sarcastic or expressive narration

strong voice

fun and engaging

When to use it:

YA fiction

fantasy with humor

fast-paced storytelling

👍 Strength: very engaging and memorable ⚠️ Risk: narrator voice can overwhelm the story if overused

D. Deep Third Person (Maximum Immersion) 🧠

This is where narration and thought blend together.

Example:

He entered the room. This was a mistake. Everyone was looking at him already. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

How it feels:

inside the character’s head

thoughts feel immediate

almost like first person without “I”

When to use it:

emotional scenes

psychological focus

high-intensity moments

👍 Strength: strongest emotional connection ⚠️ Risk: can become confusing if too chaotic

3. Core Rules That Work in ALL Styles

Rule 1: Avoid “filter words” 🚫

These create distance:

saw

heard

felt

noticed

realized

Instead of:

She saw the crowd staring.

Try:

The crowd was staring.

Or:

The crowd was already staring at her like she was late to something important.

Rule 2: Everything passes through the character 🧍

Ask:

How would THIS character interpret this moment?

Same event, different minds:

The room was quiet.

Could become:

The room was quiet in a way that felt like everyone was waiting for something to go wrong.

Rule 3: Show emotion through behavior, not labels

Instead of:

He was nervous.

Try:

He checked his phone, then his pockets, then his phone again without remembering why.

Behavior = emotion made visible.

Rule 4: Pick meaningful details 🎯

Don’t describe everything — choose what matters emotionally.

Weak:

The room had chairs and tables.

Better:

One of the chairs squeaked like it didn’t trust him.

Small detail = big personality shift.

Rule 5: Thoughts can blend into narration 🧠

Instead of:

He thought he was going to fail.

Try:

He was going to fail. Obviously. No point pretending otherwise.

No quotation marks needed — the narration becomes the thought.

4. Techniques to Improve Fast

1. “Who is noticing this?” test 👀

Every detail should be filtered through someone’s mind.

Ask:

Why does the character notice this?

What does it mean to them?

If it doesn’t matter to them → cut it or change it.

2. Upgrade boring verbs ✨

walked → drifted / stormed / shuffled / escaped

looked → stared / glared / inspected

sat → collapsed / dropped / sank

Example:

He walked into the room.

Becomes:

He drifted into the room like responsibility had been cancelled for the day.

3. Let narration match personality 🎭

anxious character → overthinks everything

angry character → sharp, judgmental narration

tired character → blunt, minimal, slightly bitter

Example:

The hallway was empty.

Becomes:

The hallway was empty, which somehow felt worse than if it had been crowded.

4. Selective observation (VERY important)

Characters don’t notice everything — only what affects them.

The party was decorated with lights and banners.

Becomes:

The party was decorated with lights, which meant expectations were involved. Unfortunate.

5. Simple Practice Method 🧪

Take a basic sentence:

She went to school.

Rewrite in 3 steps:

Add emotion

She went to school already tired.

Add interpretation

She went to school already tired of everything waiting for her there.

Add voice

She went to school already tired of everything waiting for her there, including the building itself.

Same fact. Different depth.

Final Summary 🧠

Good third person writing comes from:

controlling narrative distance

filtering everything through character perspective

replacing neutral description with interpretation

showing emotion through behavior

letting narration carry personality (when appropriate)

and then halfway through I accidentally locked in academically.

like one second I was joking:

“haha his hands are kinda ni—”

and then suddenly I’m writing:

“the vasculature serves as a topographical manifestation of psychological undoing”

EXCUSE ME?????

I STARTED THE DOCUMENT IRONICALLY.

WHY DID I END UP ACTUALLY MAKING POINTS???

WHY WAS THE ANALYSIS LOWKEY VALID???

WHY DID I BLACK OUT AND WAKE UP 10 PAGES LATER TALKING ABOUT THE “PASSENGER PRINCESS HEGEMONY”

at some point the joke stopped being:

“lol fictional FBI man”

and became:

“your honor, I have prepared a full peer-reviewed presentation on why this man needs therapy, a weighted blanket, and his own parking spot”

the scariest part is I reread it later expecting cringe and instead went:

“…wait hold on I kinda cooked here.”

while there isn't any here. there is sexual themes, an drug mentions in the essay, so just be warned if you decide to look.