achievingelysium

[achievingelysium]

Legacies

A remix of One Day by @rage-crystals​; written for the VLD Fanfic Remix 2017.

by: achieving elysium [main blog] summary: On the edge of the crater, Alfor stands with Zarkon. He can see glory a lion will bring, can taste the blood of battle, bitter on his tongue. In his hands—in their hands—rests a universe ripe for the taking. 

There is no room for fear, he thinks. And between him and Zarkon, there is none.

The story of a king told in eight parts.

notes: this was written pre-s3 and features ambiguous relationships as well as Zarkon/Alfor. AO3 Link.

King is a heavy title, but Alfor bears it well.

It’s one he takes on with no hesitation. He is born to be one—it’s written in the stars—and so a king Alfor is.

He dismisses Coran and listens for the sound of the door shutting before he crosses over to the tall mirror on the wall. On the table, Coran’s left his crown and cape.

Alfor fastens the cape first, a deep blue the color of water. The colors seem to shift in shadow. Then he fits his crown on his head, considering himself in the mirror for a moment.

“You are a king,” he tells his reflection. His eyes bore back into him, and Alfor smiles.

The party has only just begun when Alfor sweeps in. Still, he’s the last royal to arrive; the other four stand as he takes slow, measured steps, each one the epitome of regality.

“Ah, Alfor,” Zarkon says. He extends a hand, and Alfor grips it, grinning.

Zarkon doesn’t smile back — no, the Galra never show much emotion, but there’s a pleased look in his eye.

“Zarkon,” he replies. “You are too kind. Three quintants, and still we are feasting like the kings we are.”

“Indeed,” the High Priestess says. “Truly, I thank you.”

“I do not want to be an ungracious host,” Zarkon says smoothly. He gestures at the table filled with dish after dish of delicacies, and Alfor takes his seat to Zarkon’s right.

Halfway through dinner, there’s an unsettled murmuring of their guests. When Alfor looks up, he catches the tail end of a meteor, sparking bright as it tears through the atmosphere.

He sets down his fork as blue flame bursts across the sky. Alfor can feel it calling to him — there is something different about this night.

“We should go see where it lands,” he suggests, not worried about overstepping his boundaries as he puts a hand on Zarkon’s arm. Alfor smiles brightly at him. “The universe is calling for us.”

Across the table, the High Priestess of Qataar nods.

“I, too, hear its call,” she says, voice low.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Lwain's king says.

Zarkon rises from the head of the table, and the entire hall goes silent.

"Then you do not have to go," he says, his voice carrying a sense of finality. Alfor stands with him, and so does the High Priestess.

"Come," Zarkon says, beckoning, so they follow.

They take a small but spacious pod, the ship silent as it glides over the land. Alfor keeps his eyes trained on the meteor, watching it draw closer and closer.

When it hits the ground, the entire world shakes. They stop for a moment; his ears are ringing, and his bones feel rattled. But there is an energy in the air he cannot ignore.

"Quickly," he says, and Zarkon straightens in his seat. "We have to see it."

The three of them stand together around the meteor. It’s enormous, easily the size of Alfor’s ballroom. And more than anything, Alfor finds it beautiful — black as ink, and dotted with gold flecks like the stars in the night sky.

“We need to do something about this,” Zarkon says. “I cannot have this on my planet without touching it.”

Alfor steps forward and runs his fingers over the surface. It thrums with potential, and in his mind, he thinks he hears a lion’s roar.

He turns to Zarkon.

“We should make it into a lion.”

“I beg your pardon,” the High Priestess interrupts. “A lion? And how do you propose to do that? I have seen your lions — they are not nearly the size of this rock. And what would be the purpose of said lion?”

But one look at Zarkon reveals that they share the same thoughts.

“It will be a war machine,” Zarkon says. “Capable of destroying planets.”

Capable, he thinks, of bringing the universe to its knees. Capable of harnessing his beloved stars themselves. Capable of war, yes, but also of peace.

“Indeed,” is his only response.

On the edge of the crater, Alfor stands with Zarkon. He can see glory a lion will bring, can taste the blood of battle, bitter on his tongue. In his hands—in their hands—rests a universe ripe for the taking.

The High Priestess takes a step back, fear lining her movements.

There is no room for fear, he thinks. And between him and Zarkon, there is none.

ii.

The Meteor Lion is Altea’s most beautiful creation. Black and silver, with glints of red. Alfor even crowns him in gold, shaping it until it is a Lion fit for a king.

“Soon,” he promises Zarkon.

When the time comes, Alfor steps forward, followed by a set of his trusted friends. Coran hovers anxiously, but stays back in the distance as Alfor calls for the process to begin.

They fill the Lion with quintessence, and Alfor spirals into his magic. He is in his body yet not; energy pulses beneath his hands, and after a moment, he begins to think it sounds like a heartbeat.

He and his people stumble backwards, and Coran rushes to him, gripping his arm.

“Alright?”

Alfor doesn’t answer, staring hungrily up at the Lion, waiting for his creation to come to life. The entire world seems to hold its breath. Far away, from a castle balcony, he knows Zarkon is waiting, too.

And then the Lion raises to his feet and lets out a roar that tears through him. Alfor falls to his knees, victory ringing in his ears.

After a few moments, Zarkon is there, too, kneeling with him. Alfor raises his eyes to his friend.

“The Meteor Lion will bond with a pilot who is a strong leader and whose people will follow without question,” he whispers. “It’s so no one else can pilot it but you, Zarkon.”

Yes, yes, the stars sing. Zarkon, pilot of the Black One, emperor. History calls for you.

It is the first time Alfor sees Zarkon smile.

“Thank you, Alfor,” he says. “I am in your debt.”

Four other meteors follow the first, as if it is a chain reaction that starts with the black one. The second one falls to Altea, the third to Qataar, the fourth to Olkari, and the last to Lwain.

Alfor is travelling when he hears the news and orders his ship to turn. Not home, to Altea—but instead to Galra.

“If that’s not a sign from Divinity, I don’t know what is,” he says excitedly, pressing forward. “Five meteors, each landing on the most influential planets of our generation. Five meteors—we can create a super-weapon, five Lions to form one.”

“We’ve got a theme going with the Meteor Lion,” the Qataaran High Priestess said. “Can we even still call it that? They’d all be meteor lions. Anyway, the— Galra Lion, it’s got leadership qualities— Alfor, could you use your divine powers to give the other meteor lions traits for the ultimate super soldier? There are five. It can’t be too difficult. And they’d need to work in tandem, too.” She trailed off. “There is so much to think about in this situation. It is unprecedented in all of our histories.”

“Indeed,” the Olkari representative said. “I propose calling them different colors for simplicity. Ours shall be the Green lion, for the mighty forest we found its meteor in. I believe they all should have unique powers, such as land, and forest, and fire. So on.”

Zarkon rubbed his hands together.

“The pilots should be able to defend themselves, in case their Lions fall.”

Alfor gritted his teeth. The Lions were to be infallible, and as one, they would reach levels the universe had never seen before. There was no need.

“Alfor, you should be able to make weapons that echo our souls, right?”

“That’s your expertise, not mine,” he says finally. “And the Lions won’t fall.”

The High Priestess stares at the sky.

“We’ll call it Voltron,” she announces decisively. “After the angel.”

Voltron, harbringer of death — but also protector of those who were brave enough to ask. A fitting name.

“Voltron,” he says, lifting his face to the sky. “Voltron.”

iii.

Later finds him and Zarkon alone on the balcony, staring at the stars.

“There’s so much hanging on this,” he says. “Imagine, Zarkon. A universe united in peace that we will create.”

He can see it. Blood may stain his hands, but in the end, the universe will be at peace.

“It’s beautiful,” he finishes.

Zarkon’s eyes gleam with his vision. He doesn’t respond to Alfor, instead deep in thought. He’s a dreamer, too—both of them are.

“I’ll make the weapons,” he says. “And once the Lions are completed, we’ll form Voltron—head, arms, and legs.”

Alfor raises his eyebrows but smiles. “And who’ll be the torso?”

Zarkon shrugs.

“The same person who’s the head, I guess. Which planets will be which parts, do you think?”

He leans against the railing, considering it for a moment.

There is a part of him that hungers to be the leader, but he knows that even as a king, he cannot be the head. No—

“You’re the first, and you will be the intellectual and leader of Voltron. So you should be the head at the seat of power,” Alfor says.

Zarkon is far better than him; he carries a drive and determination that Alfor trusts will lead them far.

“I’ll be your right hand man, the arm. Olkari will be the left, and the other two will be the legs.”

“You should be fire,” Zarkon muses. “Bright and burning, like you. Instinct, gut feelings—soldiers need that. And you’ll be red, and Qataar will be blue, like water, fluid and faithful. A leg. Lwain, too—they’ll be the support.”

Alfor sees brightness burning in Zarkon’s eyes, and he realizes that he will follow him anywhere.

“And you?” he says softly.

Zarkon turns to him. The dim light spilling from the room casts half his face in shadow, but Alfor chooses to study the brightness.

“I’ll be the sky,” Zarkon says after a moment. He doesn’t seem to realize it, but his voice, too, has gone soft. “Black — for sky and space and its endlessness.”

They have been kings and brothers for a long time, but suddenly, in this moment, Alfor wants more.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing burning words on his tongue. “We’ll defend the universe.”

Zarkon only stares out at his home, silence resounding as his answer.

iv.

The first time they form Voltron, Alfor’s mouth fills with the taste of blood, coppery and strange. Then he laughs, because they’ve done it; they’ve finally, finally done it.

And it’s not just him. It’s all of them—a team.

No secrets. No hidden agendas. Only trust and family.

Suddenly their bond extends deeper than any of them expect it to. Suddenly they are all one, and Alfor’s thoughts aren’t his own.

A lingering thought from their Blue Paladin, Cellie, catches on a snag in his mind and doesn’t let go.

Alfor snaps back into his mind as Voltron drifts apart again. The others are celebrating, laughter faint through the comms, but he’s left with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Cellie is in love with Zarkon.

He thinks of his nights spent together with Zarkon, pinning his heart to his sleeve and waiting to be noticed. And as it turns out, he is not the only one.

Alfor does the only thing he can.

He copies the Galra and buries his feelings until they become the ghost of a dream. He watches Zarkon fall in love. Watches the way his eyes go soft, listens to him when he speaks about his girl like she’s the only other person in the universe.

Zarkon’s not blinded by love, of course. He still hungers for more, but the sharpness that comes with him is soothed by Cellie’s waters.

Alfor settles.

Marries childhood friend Alladosia—and when she confesses to him that she only loves him as a friend, Alfor presses his lips to her forehead and closes his eyes.

Still, they provide Altea with an heir. Allura is a brilliant star in the midst of darkness. She awakens in him a father and a sense of wonder at how the entire universe has managed to manifest in such a small thing.

“Would you like to hold her?” Alladosia asks, bouncing Allura in her arms. Zarkon hesitates, but then he gently takes Allura in his huge hands, scooping her up and treating her like she is a piece of glass to be broken at any second.

“She’s beautiful,” Zarkon says, and his eyes are bright as he peers at Allura. His voice is warm and full, and Alfor feels something in him twist. She should be their child.

Alladosia lays a hand on his arm, her eyes dark.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs to her as they step back slightly, keeping Allura in sight but moving out of earshot. He touches her face. “You are— dear to me.”

“As are you to me,” Alladosia says, “which is why you need to let go. Loving him hurts you.”

Alfor turns his face to the ground, bitter. Distantly, he hears Allura gurgling with laughter.

“I know,” he says. “I just— can’t.”

 Alladosia leaves a gaping crater in Alfor that begs to be filled.

Only a month has passed since she has passed, yet Alfor feels like he’s been in some sort of dream. He locks himself up most days, finding solace in Allura. He pleads with the universe to bring her back, to give him someone who will love him and stand by his side.

The universe answers.

Not with his wife, but in Zarkon, his hand on Alfor’s shoulder as he leads him back to his chambers.

“I’m sorry,” Zarkon says when they reach the doors. “I know what she meant to you.”

There is grief lodged in his throat. Alfor blinks back his tears, trying not to think of the pink shroud Alladosia had been burned in. The smell of smoke still clings to his clothes, and suddenly he is desperate to get rid of them.

“Alfor?” Zarkon says when he is silent.

He is not quite in his right mind, he realizes. But he needs—he needs someone to piece him together, needs to forget his grief and his aching loneliness, so Alfor shuts the doors behind Zarkon and watches the room go dark.

Then he kisses Zarkon, desperate and numb.

“Alfor,” Zarkon says.

“Please, Zarkon,” he whispers.

Zarkon drops to his knees, eyes dark as he looks up at Alfor. He looks like he’s praying at the feet of a temple when he rests a hand on Alfor’s knee, hesitating.

“No secrets between Voltron,” Zarkon murmurs, repeating Alfor’s old words.

“This one will be fine,” Alfor says.

 Things change.

It’s inevitable, of course. Alfor drifts in and out of reality, caught in between his emotions and his duty as a king and paladin of Voltron. There is no rest for him—always more meetings and fights and not a moment alone.

He’s not doing well, he knows.

When the others ask him to stop piloting the Red Lion, the fog that has seeped into his mind disappears.

“I’ll be better,” he promises, and his voice is desperate as he stares at Zarkon. Leader, he calls him most days. Lover, if he feels brave enough. “I will.”

“Very well,” Zarkon says, “but if this is a problem again, I do not want you near the Red Lion. Understood?”

Losing the Red Lion is losing a friend. Losing the Red Lion is losing a family. Losing the Red Lion is— is losing Zarkon.

“Understood,” Alfor whispers.

The two of them are different people now, but still their paths converge.

“Thank you, Zarkon,” Alfor says when they stop outside Zarkon’s quarters.

Zarkon opens the doors. “It’s what friends do.”

 vii.

Footsteps pound through the hall.

“Alfor!”

He stops, and Coran grabs his shoulder as he pants.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

Not a moment later, the alarms begin to ring. He turns in a circle, his first thought of Allura, his second of Zarkon.

“Alfor,” Coran says. “He’s gone.”

“Who?”

Coran grips his shoulder tighter. “Zarkon.”

The alarms continue to blare, but they fade away. Alfor rocks back and forth on his feet for a moment, unsteady, before it sinks in.

“I don’t understand,” he says, mind racing. “What… what do you mean?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have listened to him,” Coran says frantically. “I knew we couldn’t trust him. I knew, I knew… and the look on his face, oh, I’m such a fool—”

“Your Majesty!” someone interrupts, racing down the hall. “A Burn Worm… outside the Castle…”

Alfor feels his face drain of color and warmth. Burn Worms are deadly creatures of destruction, and to have one here on Altea, where their grasses are plentiful and now burning—

“Prepare the Castle defenses,” he snaps. “And evacuate the people. I’ll send for Voltron.”

Coran catches his arm again. “Alfor, you aren’t listening to me.”

Alfor whirls, thinking of his people, screaming, burning—

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. His voice is loud to his ears, and in it he hears denial of the one fact he has been sure of, perhaps, since the beginning.

“It doesn’t matter!” he bellows, like he’s trying to prove something. Desperate.

“Alfor,” Coran says, and his voice is soft this time. His eyes are warm.

“My friend,” Alfor says, and he hears his voice strain and crack. “Do what you must. I will see you… I will see you on the other side.”

Coran studies him for a moment and then bows.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says before turning and sprinting down the hall. Alfor stares at his retreating back and wonders how many friends he will lose today.

 viii.

His kingdom is breaking at the seams.

Alfor hasn’t slept in… a while, he thinks. He’s not sure. His people live, but they live in fear of what Zarkon—emperor, as he calls himself these days—will do. He’s already sent many of them off-planet, shuttled to Altea’s allies.

“Are you sure, Alfor?” Coran says in the quiet moments. He’s binding a wire around Alfor’s wrist; there are already many attached to his head and along his chest.

It feels like there’s a storm waiting.

“I’m sure,” he says, and Coran nods.

The process doesn’t take very long. It’s simple and painless. He blinks, and then it’s over. All of his memories, everything he is, stored here on the holodeck.

“You will not tell Allura about this,” Alfor instructs as they unattach all the wires from his body. “Not until the time is right.”

“Surely—”

“No,” he says sharply. “She will know.”

Coran worries at his lip. “Know what?”

Alfor fixes his cloak as he stalks towards the doorway. There is no time to spare—Zarkon will be here soon, and Alfor must face him.

“I will not see her again,” he says, and the words are the most painful ones he’s ever spoken. “Coran, I— I want both of you in cyrosleep.”

Coran wrenches his shoulder back, and they stare at each other. “No.”

“You must,” Alfor begs, letting his walls crumble. “It is the only way. If Allura lives, so does Altea—today and tomorrow and years from now. And she is going to need someone by her side.”

His eyes burn, and Alfor turns his face away.

“It will not be me,” he chokes out, “but I know you love her as much as I do, and you will protect her with your life. And—”

Alfor touches Coran’s shoulder. “I want you to live,” he whispers. “You have been… you have been a dear friend to me, Coran. I am sorry I never told you, and that I did not appreciate you enough. You have always been here.”

Coran’s lips are pressed together and trembling, but he nods.

Alfor draws his sword and looks into it.

A tired man stares back at him.

“Tell her I love her,” he says, “and that I… I will see her soon.”

He has no words left to say. Alfor has lost in terrible ways: the screams of the dying haunt his dreams, his planet is almost decimated, and Zarkon rules an empire now.

But he has also won. The Lions are locked away, hidden safely. His daughter and best friend are safe.

The universe will find a way to rise up. It always does. All Alfor needs to do is give them a fighting chance.

Coran stares into his face. He has nothing left to say, either—they have spoken all the words they need to, and the ones left unspoken Alfor carries in his breast.

So Coran presses his fingers to his lips and then bows.

“Coran,” Alfor says.

“King Alfor,” he replies. When Coran leaves, he will be carrying hope in his arms.

They are the last words they will ever say to each other.

The crown the king keeps, but the emperor takes his throne. 

[achievingelysium]

what could have been

for @spibat / cafebat on twitter; written for the vld rarepair exchange on twitter. wrote a little latte for you— hope you like it, keith! 

written by: achieving elysium summary: Rescuing Lance, as Matt finds out, means hearing lots of pick-up lines, coming out of the closet, and a fight or two.

ao3 | ffnet

“So… uh, come here often?”

Matt gritted his teeth, glancing behind him at the doors he’d barricaded with what little he could find. It wouldn’t take much longer until the Galra were here.

“Lance,” he hissed. “We don’t have time for pick-up lines.”

Lance only smiled tiredly at him, winking.

“There’s always time for you—”

“Lance.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry, dude, but you’re so much prettier than Haggar. Like, her hair’s not bad, I guess, and her nails are to die for, but you’ve got her beat.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Matt said, but he ducked his head and ignored the blush that was spreading across his cheeks.

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[achievingelysium]

fake dating au

written for my 1.5k followers celebration: 24-hour fanfic requests; want one? 

“Just… one night?”

Annabeth nodded from where she was standing outside the doorway, her hands in fists at her side.

“Just one night,” she said, trying not to sound too desperate.

Percy leaned against the doorway, considering her. He looked like he’d just woken up from a nap, his hair tousled and still blinking the last dregs of sleep from his eyes.

He hadn’t answered her when she’d called and texted, so Annabeth had done the next best thing and shown up at his apartment door.

“Free food,” Annabeth sang, poking his shoulder. “I know you like that.”

He caught her hand and smiled.

“You don’t have to bribe me,” Percy said, and Annabeth felt her heart stutter in her chest. “You’re my best friend. Let’s do it.”

Annabeth bit her lip. He didn’t need to know that he was the only person she’d known to ask, nor did he know that she was starting to regret it — not because she didn’t want to go with him, but because she wasn’t sure if her heart would be able to handle it.

“Okay,” Annabeth said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and glancing up at him.

“Okay,” Percy said. His lips lifted into that crooked grin she loved, and Annabeth realized it was going to be a long, long night.

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[achievingelysium]

blue sushi

this is a silly reychel thing i wrote instead of doing my homework. it’s pretty bad but love it anyway,, @ rick pls make them canon ok? ok

“A month,” Reyna groaned, staring glumly at her leg, which was propped up on one of the many pillows scattered on Rachel’s couch. “I have to wear this stupid cast for a month.” 

Rachel, a few feet away, stuck her brush into the watering can, which she’d been using only half an hour ago for its intended purpose on the plants crowded at the entrance of the cave before switching to using it to clean her paintbrushes. It made no sense to Reyna - an artist thing, she supposed. 

She herself could barely scribble out a stick figure with an angry face, which made several appearances at the top and margins of Frank’s papers and reports since she could never bring herself to mess up her own. 

“Uh huh,” Rachel said. She didn’t sound annoyed at all, which was impressive, considering Reyna had Iris-Messaged her twice to grumble about stupid consuls and had been ranting on and off for the past hour. 

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[achievingelysium]

“There was one birthday… you asked me what I wanted,” he reminded her, pressing his face to her shoulder. “and I said: I want to be happy, and I am so, so happy, Mom.”

so i made a little edit and wrote a meaningless little fic for the birthday boy. can’t believe he’s 23. happy birthday, percy!

“Look at you,” Mom said, smoothing at his shirt and straightening his snapback even if they both knew he’d turn it back around again by the end of the day. 

Percy grinned at her, feeling like a little kid again under her gaze, even if it’d been years. 

“Look at you,” he said, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “You look great, Mom.”

And she did, in a dark blue dress the same color as Percy’s patterned top, her best accessory the bright smile on her face.

They linked arms as they walked down the short two flights of stairs to the lobby, the elevator having broken a day earlier. Neither of them minded, catching up happily even though Percy texted her almost every day. 

“Where are we going?” she asked. “And where’s Annabeth?”

Percy hummed. “She’s gonna meet up with us later. And it’s a surprise.” 

“So just us two?”

He smiled at her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Just like the old times.”

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[achievingelysium]

frazel ✫ please??

ask and ye shall receive, Ruby! Thanks for asking!

Send me a ✫ and a character (up to 3) or a pairing and I’ll generate a number and write a drabble based on the corresponding prompt on this list here! Pls I’m desperate. Also multifandom. 

number: 42prompt: Greek gods  gee what an interesting concept

number: 113 i like this oneprompt: ghost hunter 

Frank held his bow low but ready, his fingers curled around Asteria’s string. He could feel it - her - humming with an energy not of this world, pulsing to the beat of his frenzied heart. The wooden floors creaked as he took a few more steps.

Most people his age were going out with friends, cramming on homework, and generally living the teen life. For Frank Zhang, recipient of a legacy? Not so much. 

“And I get to hunt ghosts,” he muttered. Real ghost hunting - not what kids saw on TV, foolish people looking to contact the supernatural through mics and heat-sensors, modern technology that could be tampered with. No, most ghosts wanted little to do with them - they wanted blood. 

Frank swallowed, heart thundering in his ears. There was something exciting about this, too - the thrill of the hunt, the rush of adrenaline, of seeking ghosts out and playing with fire. He’d become addicted, drunk on a lifestyle that was forever on the edge, dancing on the thin line between life and death. 

When his target made no appearance, he lowered Asteria, though she seemed to burn against his hand like he was holding a dying ember. The bow was no ordinary one, that much was sure, passed down through generations, gifted by the gods themselves. 

Ghosts wanted blood. And if that was what they wanted…

Frank drew a sharp knife and cut it across his palm. There was a jerk and a stinging pain, and red colored warmth flowed through his fingers and dripped onto the floor. 

…then that was what they were going to get.

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[achievingelysium]

♔: Finding the other wearing their clothes- Percy and Annabeth

♔ finding the other wearing their clothes | Percabeth 

warning: dork alert

If there was one thing in this world that Percy was good at, it was losing things. It was like a superpower. If he’d been a superhero instead of a demigod, his ability would be to lose things. 

Well, that or being able to, like, play the harmonica. 

As good as Percy was at losing things, his yellow sweater shouldn’t have been so hard to find. His “closet” - more like the floor or any flat surface he could toss clothes on - consisted of mainly dark colors, with a lot of blue. His sweater would stick out like a bright fish swimming in dark waters. 

“Annabeth?” he called. “Hey, babe—”

Oh, right. She’d gone out only an hour ago to run some errands; she’d probably be back soon. Percy checked the time and winced. 

“Where is it?” he hissed, tugging the drawers open again even though he’d looked through them three times now. Percy shoved his clothes to the side and found a striped sock instead. 

“Not the time,” he told the left sock. “Nope. Why is it that everything goes missing and shows up at the wrong time?” 

Percy tossed the offending sock back into the drawer and used his foot to push it shut. He crossed his arms and looked around the room. Curled up on the rug, Yuki lifted her head to look at him, then whined. 

“I know, girl,” he said, sliding down to the floor so he could run a hand over her floppy ears. “Losing stuff sucks.”

She pushed her wet nose into his hand in response. 

“At least someone gets me,” Percy grumbled. He threw up his hands. 

Rachel had asked him ages ago to take part in a photoshoot for saving the bees, and he’d agreed, albeit a bit warily. She’d promised there’d be no glitter or gold paint, so Percy figured it couldn’t be too bad. 

“What am I gonna do, Yuki? Hey, Rach, I hope it’s okay if I’m wearing orange to save the bees—”

A horrible thought occurred to him. 

Percy twisted his fingers together and went to the other side of the room, where Annabeth had her own set of drawers. Their clothes still generally tended to end up in each other’s drawers, but they kept them anyway. He tugged open the top drawer and was greeted with rows of bras and panties, most of them simple but a few lacy with lots of strings. 

He shut the top drawer as quickly as possible, trying desperately not to imagine Annabeth in them — the black one against her warm skin, his fingers sliding under the straps, his lips on hers, then down her neck and—

“Sweater,” he said aloud, sucking in a deep breath. “Sweater.”

He found one in the second drawer. Annabeth’s was a paler yellow - more pastel and quite pretty. He pulled it out, letting it unfold, and Percy grinned. It was perfect. The sleeves were longer than he’d expected, so it’d kind of fit, and there was even a little bee right over the heart. 

Percy took off his shirt and slipped Annabeth’s sweater on. In the mirror in the corner, his reflection stood; he looked at himself and found that it didn’t look half-bad. 

The sweater was just a bit short. Percy tugged at it uncomfortably. On him, it was more like a crop top than anything, which meant he’d be baring his midriff on camera today. At second thought, the sweater seemed like just the kind of thing Rachel would approve of. 

On the bed, his phone buzzed and lit up. 

On your way yet? 

He looked at the time. It was a thirty-minute drive over to Rachel’s studio, so it was just about time to leave. 

Yep. 

On the floor, Yuki’s ears raised. She stood, shaking herself, and looked out of the bedroom excitedly. A second later, the sound of the key in the lock rang through the apartment. 

He shoved his phone in his pocket and grabbed the backpack he’d had ready, slinging it over a shoulder. 

The door opened, and Annabeth stepped in. 

“Hey, Percy,” she said absentmindedly, dropping the keys in the little dish by the door and pulling her sunglasses down. She was carrying the groceries, but that wasn’t what made Percy stop. It was the sweater she was wearing - a mustard yellow color, the sleeves long and the sweater baggy, falling to her thighs. 

“Oh,” he said, and she turned to find him still staring at her. “So that’s where it went.”

“Where what—” Annabeth said before looking down. She lifted her eyes back up towards him and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s really comfy, okay? And is that… is that my sweater?”

He crossed his arms defensively, striding across the room to meet her. “You stole mine first, you thief.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, looking up at him. Percy couldn’t help it; his mind went back to that top drawer, and he put his arms around her, fingers pressing against the soft sweater at her back. 

“You look nice,” Annabeth continued, and her eyes flicked down to his stomach before flicking back up. Her voice had gone low. “I like this on you.”

Long, calloused fingers found his bare skin; Annabeth’s hands slid up his back, lingering for a moment at his Achilles’ Heel. He shuddered, and Annabeth lifted on her toes to kiss him. 

“Going to Rachel’s?” she asked against his lips.

“Yeah,” he mumbled back, but now that she was in his arms, it was a lot harder to leave.

“Just don’t go,” Annabeth said, and kissed him again. “Stay here with me.”

“That’s a really bad idea,” he said. 

“You’re good at that,” she said, smiling. 

“Yeah,” Percy said. He showed up to Rachel’s half an hour late. 

‘non sexual,’ i said, then proceeded to imply lots of stuff while crying. im sorry mari it wasnt supposed to be like this,,

but… thank u so much i’ve missed percabeth and i struggled with pjo and this made me feel really good it was so good to write <3 

pick one of the following and send me a pairing! (non-sexual acts of intimacy)

[achievingelysium]

High Tide

so i read this ask that got sent to ashlee (@bananannabeth), and i’m feeling kinda salty about fandoms, and i miss writing pjo fic, and, yeah. though it didn’t turn out as grover-centric as i wanted. 

also, i threw canon out of the window for this fic. like, please disregard boo completely. 

a short summary: Percy goes home.

Home. 

Percy dreams of it most days, now that they’re so close - well, the days he doesn’t wake sweat-soaked and stumbling out of bed from nightmares, anyway. In his dreams, he can see the rows of mismatched cabins, can smell the summer-sweet strawberries, can dig his toes into the warm sand, water lapping at his feet, and finally, finally breathe. 

The echoes of war still hang around him, hiding in his shadows so he’ll never be able to leave them behind, but the thought of Camp Half-Blood makes his chest a little lighter. 

“Percy?”

He doesn’t have to turn to know who it is. Annabeth comes to stand next to him, her footsteps quiet but her presence loud. 

They don’t say anything for a while; instead, he takes her hand in his and reminds himself that she’s here, that they’re together. 

Keep reading

[achievingelysium]

Since u want an excuse to write shance Buddy bring me that Shangst. All of it. Kill them. Make them suffer.

i’m tired and it’s really not that angsty but take it take this fucking, pre kerberos shangst au 

The night everything changes, there’s a shooting star. Lance crouches on the roof of the Garrison with his team, and they watch it streak across the night sky, burning and burning and burning. He doesn’t know why, but the sight makes his chest tighten and eyes burn. 

It’s later when he’s peering through a pair of binoculars to see Takashi Shirogane strapped down on a table that he realizes why it hurt so much. 

“I knew you weren’t dead,” he says to himself. “I knew it.”

There’s no time to think, only to act. He skids down the side of the small cliff, scrambling as they make their way towards the building in the distance. The ground shakes as they do, but Lance ignores it, keeping himself somewhat steady.

“Why are we doing this again?” Hunk groans, but he follows them anyway. Lance and Pidge just exchange a look, and for a moment, Lance wonders what Pidge is thinking. 

They break in, and Lance stops for a moment, time slowing to a standstill. 

Shiro looks so— different. He’s still handsome, of course, and the lines of his face are the same. But he’s gone through something Lance is scared he’ll never get to learn about. There’s a scar across his nose, thick and angry. His hair — a part of it has turned a frosty white. The biggest, most obvious difference, though, is his arm. Or, well, lack of one. In its place is a smooth metal prosthetic, silvery in the light, and it makes Lance want to run far, far away. It makes him furious, and terrified, and sad. 

Keep reading

[achievingelysium]

baby steps

Of everything she is, from a wife to the mother of a three-year old toddler to a newly-published book author, Sally is Percy’s mom first.

Or, not all monsters are out there in the world, the road to recovery is longer than anyone realizes, and Sally takes care of her son. 

notes: feelin kinda empty today, but sally jackson is a gift to this world and her relationship with percy is more important than any non-feelings i have. also, tfw a fictional character can get a book published but you’re still struggling,

Sally paused in front of the only closed door in the apartment, her hand hovering in the air a moment before she knocked gently.

“Percy?” she called.

He didn’t answer. She worried at her lip. It was already seven thirty; usually, he’d be up by now so he could eat breakfast then drop off Nelly at preschool. 

“Percy?” she tried again. “Percy, honey, I’m coming in, okay?”

Silence in the place of words slipped under the door to answer her, so Sally pushed the door in. Maybe he’d overslept - it’d been a busy week, what with swim meets and the release of Knee Deep and, well, Nelly walking and talking all over the place - so it wouldn’t surprise her if he just hadn’t gotten up. 

The door creaked loudly as it opened, and Sally cringed at the sound.

She was wrong. Percy was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed facing the window, life flickering by outside. She frowned at his bare back and stepped closer, maneuvering around a pile of clothes that needed washing and another equally tall stack of textbooks and papers.

“Percy,” she began, stopping at the foot of his bed, trying to push down her irritation and the stress that came with most mornings, everyone rushing to go here and there. “You need to get moving soon, okay? It’s almost time to go.”

He didn’t respond to her, but this wasn’t anything unusual. When he was younger, she’d had to repeat herself over and over again until he’d finally hear her, lost in his head in a mess of jumbled, loud thoughts that drowned out any other sound.

Keep reading

[achievingelysium]

✫ i want to order latte

one latte coming right up!!

(edit: an au ft. lance going to kerberos instead of shiro)

#2. prison

“Challenger,” the prisoners whisper as he passes. “Champion.” 

Lance doesn’t feel like a challenger or a champion. He doesn’t even feel brave; instead, all Lance feels is sick to his stomach and scared. 

I’m not worthy, he wants to shout back. 

There are hundreds of faces, every one weird and different like the kind of stuff Carlos would draw to hang on the fridge - but on their faces is hope. Lance meets an alien’s eyes for a moment before he’s hit in the back with the butt of a rifle and has to keep going. 

By the time they reach his cell, Lance can’t even walk anymore. His shoulder and the cut on his side burn with every movement; his head is starting to spin, the ship’s hallways blurring together. They drag him the last few feet and toss him in.

“Lance,” a voice says next to him, and suddenly, Matt is there, crouched over him. “Oh, God, Lance.”

Keep reading

[achievingelysium]

down

AU. Lance and Keith get stuck in an elevator - no phones, no one to come for hours yet, and Lance’s claustrophobia… this can only end in disaster.

or, that one au i hijacked from @yaxxm​. sorry.

Two hours of being stuck in an elevator with Keith fucking Kogane was, quite possibly, the worst thing that had ever happened to Lance.

It definitely wasn’t great first date material – not that this was a date, of course, but still.

Keep reading

[achievingelysium]

young sam/colleen *finger guns* - not keith/kenith

relationship; prompt - long distance relationship 

send me a character/ship and a category, and i’ll write you a fic!

note: i ship them so hard i ship samcoll so hard holy shit

Sam leans against the wall, twirling the phone cord between his fingers. It’s kind of stupid, he thinks; the Garrison has some of the best tech in the country, and they’re still using these old, junky phones like they’ve walked straight out of one of those old movies Colleen likes.

It rings. Rings, and rings, and rings. 

Sam worries his lip and casts a glance down the hallway. There’s no one around at nine on a Tuesday. 

Maybe she’s asleep. Texas is two hours ahead, which means it’ll be about eleven. It’s a little late to be calling, but he’d wanted to finish up an assignment after hours, which meant he hadn’t had any free time before now. 

He’s about to hang up when there’s a soft noise on the other end. 

“Hello?” 

The breath leaves his lungs in one long exhale. Hearing her voice makes his stomach twist and a blush raise on his cheeks. Even now, after dating for more than a year, he still feels like it’s the first day and she’s walking up to him with confidence in her eyes and his name and a date on her lips. 

“Hey,” Sam says, then adds, “I know it’s late. M’sorry, Col.”

Keep reading

[achievingelysium]

and yet

After the Castle of Lions is reclaimed from Sendak, Coran finds himself left alone to his thoughts— guilt and sorrow for children who do not belong in a war.

written for voltron angst week | day one: smile | AO3

You cannot count age by numbers.

It’s something Coran has learned, something that his grandfather used to teach him when he was young. He’d carry Coran on his shoulders as he walked through the streets of Altea, telling him the stories of things that had come and gone.

You cannot count— you cannot measure.

Coran clasps his hands behind his back and paces. Forwards, back. Forwards, back. One foot in front of the other, step, step, turn.

There’s a crease in his clothing; Coran uses a hand to smooth it out and catches sight of his glove, stained a dark brown.

Forwards, back. One foot—

The floor is burnt in places, scorched by fire. Coran clenches his shaking hands into fists.

Forwards, back. Forwards, back. One foot in front of the other, step, step, step, turn, turn, one foot—

He stops. The silence that follows – the absence of his footsteps – is jarring.

“Alright, then, Coran, old boy,” he says out loud, the same way his grandfather used to. “Breathe now. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Count to five now. It’s alright— smile for me, yeah?”

He breathes, then says: “One.”

There’s nothing left to distract him here. The battle is over. There’s no paladin to talk to him, no Crystal to retrieve; he’s checked the systems six times over, has looked over the Castle’s statistics.

Now, while the Castle and its inhabitants slumber, Coran stays awake.

Keep reading

[achievingelysium]

hunk and jealousy

a character study i guess? what are thooose

The feeling festers under his skin. It’s thick, and hot, and heavy, and Hunk wants it gone— but jealousy never leaves, not really. It’s already taken root in his bones. 

Hunk grits his teeth and stretches the dough in front of him before folding it over. Stretch, fold. Stretch, fold. Flour finds its way into the crevices of his hand and under his fingernails; dough sticks between his fingers and stays. He rubs his fingers together, and his chest goes tight. Stretch. Fold. 

This is what he’s made for, Hunk thinks, and he’s not sure if he likes that anymore. Cook, maybe, or comedian; he’s not like the others. No one looks at Hunk and thinks that oh, yeah, this guy— this guy is a defender of the universe. 

He pounds the countertop and is pleased to feel his hand sting. There is no place for him but here; he does not belong on a battlefield, on Team Voltron. Hunk envies the others— Lance, his best friend, always wearing an easy confidence that hangs off his shoulders like a well-cut jacket; Shiro, the fearless leader, authority lining his every feature; Pidge, the youngest, sharp-mouthed and straight-spined; Keith, a prodigy, with only a taste for victory and determination. 

Hunk wants to be like them. He folds the mound of dough over itself and then molds it with his hands. He wants to be like them, but he’s always running, chasing, following his friends. Always, always one step behind. The biggest person in the room is always the smallest. He has to stop and catch his breath. He trips and falls. 

The universe could care less about him. Hunk craves its attention; he needs to be more than he is. He stares at his sticky, white-dusted hands and wonders if they can make galaxies and stars and gaping black holes instead of bread. 

Jealousy stirs, deep in his stomach. Jealousy— or perhaps it’s hunger that claws at him, that makes him watch the others climb higher and higher, finding their places in the sky. 

Hunk leaves the dough on the counter and waits for it to rise. 

birthday bash: send me characters and a word/prompt/situation, and i’ll write you a drabble! [tagged as sweet 16 bday bash]

[achievingelysium]

♡ Shance/Shunk/Sheith, your pick which?

♡ accidentally falling asleep together | shance/shunk/sheith 

Shiro smiles when he hears footsteps behind him. They’re quiet, but they fill the room nonetheless, and a second later, Lance sits down next to him, crossing his long legs over each other. The emptiness — loneliness — recedes. 

“This is weird,” is the first thing that comes out of Lance’s mouth. Shiro turns to him, propping his chin on his hand and raising an eyebrow. Lance flushes.

“Usually it’s the other way around,” he explains, gesturing between them. Shiro glances around and realizes that he’s right. More often than not, Shiro is the one finding Lance sitting amongst the stars, searching, waiting, wanting. 

“True,” Shiro agrees. He unfolds himself, stretching out his limbs. Lance runs his fingers over Shiro’s shoulder, and some of the tension in it releases. He hums.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Shiro’s mouth twists. He almost doesn’t answer, almost says no, but—

“…yeah.”

Lance considers him for a moment. The stars gleam in his eyes, a thousand reflected lights that make them look more like a galaxy than an ocean— though he always gets lost, no matter what they look like. 

“Here,” he says, patting his thigh. 

It takes him a second to understand. “Lance—”

Immediately, Lance starts pouting. He kind of hates it when Lance does it, because it’s really cute, and he always seems so genuinely disappointed that Shiro has to give in. 

“Lance,” he says again, but his resolve is weakening. 

“Shiro,” is whined back at him. “Am I not a good pillow?”

They look at each other for a moment, facing off, before Shiro sighs. Lance’s expression clears; he brightens up visibly. 

“You’re bony,” Shiro grumbles, poking him in the side and eliciting a yelp. He really isn’t, though; Lance just grins back at him in response. 

A moment later, his head is pillowed in Lance’s lap. Shiro reaches for Lance’s hand, taking it in his own and running his fingers over knuckles and ridges and scars, memorizing it like he would a map. 

“I brought a book,” says Lance, reaching behind him with his other hand and showing him a thin Altean tablet— the equivalent of a space e-reader, he supposes. Lance has somehow managed to procure stickers that are plastered over the back; there’s one of Blue, unsurprisingly, and some waves, a scribbled quote from an old book series Shiro’s sure he’s read. 

“Same one as before?” Shiro asks. “The one that’s like a swashbuckling space opera?”

Lance laughs. It’s a nice sound. 

“Are you describing a book or our life?”

Shiro chuckles. “I don’t know if we’re swashbuckling—”

Lance grins at it, the one that he saves for when he’s flirting. A little crooked, the peek of white teeth, his lips lifted at the edges— it makes Shiro want to kiss him. Instead, he feels his face heat up just a bit and the air lodge in his throat. 

“Don’t you think I’m daring?” he says. “Or adventurous, or charming, or, uh, I dunno, heroic?”

Shiro laughs. He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. 

“Sure, Lance,” he teases, but the smile softens a little. “You’re all of those.”

Lance goes red for a minute before he clears his throat and turns the tablet on. He has to take his hand back, which makes Shiro incredibly disappointed. 

“What story will you read today?” Shiro asks, then adds on an afterthought. “Not that I’ll understand it, anyway. You can translate later.”

Both Lance and Pidge have entered a friendly competition to learn Altean. Pidge is, for some reason, still using the Castle’s program to learn, though Shiro’s confided that he a) doesn’t think it’s very effective and b) that it’s kind of dangerous. Not that she would’ve listened to him. 

Lance is doing marginally better by his method of reading and watching old, cheesy Altean movies. He tells Shiro that Altean is definitely a lot different from Spanish, but he seems to be doing alright, well enough to converse with Coran a bit. 

“Just some Altean folk tales,” Lance says lightly. “I asked Coran for some recommendations. I want to— I dunno…”

He goes quiet for a bit, mulling over his thoughts, and Shiro waits for him, ever-patient. 

“I guess I thought it’d be nice,” Lance says. “Like, I mean, there’s not much I can do for myself, but I’m not, like, the only one missing home. So I thought Coran and Allura would appreciate if we… spoke Altean, sometimes.”

“Lance,” Shiro says, because his name is the only thing he can seem to say. His heart warms and swells. It’s such a Lance thing to do.

“You’ll pick it up sooner or later,” Lance continues matter-of-factly, pursing his lips. “You’re bound to if I’m reading to you all the time. Instead of just knowing your ‘essential words’—”

“Hey, they’re pretty important,” Shiro says. “I know how to say be quiet—”

“—more like shut up—”

“Ab akekeosa,” he says in response, and Lance lets out a startled laugh. 

“So now you’re telling me to shut up, huh?”

“And I know hello and mood and relatable—”

“Oh, ab akekeosa,” Lance grumbles, but there’s a smile on his lips. 

They settle back into a comfortable quiet again. Shiro turns his eyes to the stars, tracing lines between them. They’re in all the wrong places, but he looks for the constellations he knows anyway and tries to remember their stories: Cassiopeia, Aquarius, Pegasus. 

Lance starts reading. His voice is low and smooth, water over the rocks. There’s a strange lilt to his words, beautiful, and Shiro is reminded of his mother’s voice, soothing as she used to read him old Japanese tales. They all have stories, all have legends they carry in their hearts, tales that echo across the stars. 

(Or maybe, he thinks, the tale of Orihime and Hikoboshi is real, and the time they spend apart is when they make their ways into other legends, far, far from Earth.) 

He doesn’t understand a word. Lance reads, and reads, and reads — he pauses often, hesitating over a new word or stumbling through a sentence, but it’s calming. Shiro finds himself content. Happy. 

He falls asleep to words steeped in ancient history, lulled into dreams by Lance’s voice. When he wakes again, it’s quiet; there’s a jacket that isn’t his draped over his shoulders. Lance is somehow curled into him, his knees close to Shiro’s chest; Shiro tucks his face into Lance’s shoulder and smiles. 

A hand finds his shoulder. Lance taps him blindly, and Shiro finds the sense to twine their fingers together in his muddled state.

“Sleep,” comes Lance’s voice, thick and soft. 

Shiro hums and does just that. 

pick one of the following and send me a pairing! (non-sexual acts of intimacy)

[achievingelysium]

♦: Slow dancing

♦ Slow dancing | Percabeth 

“What do you think?” Annabeth asked, dangling two different pairs of shorts in front of Percy’s face. “This one, or this one?”

Percy squinted at her. 

“What do you think I think?” 

She rolled her eyes. “The blue one, I know.” 

Percy grinned up at her. “It’s only the best color ever, Annabeth.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Your nails dry yet?” 

Percy blew on them one last time for good measure, as if it would help, and then gently tested one, tapping his fingernail against his palm. They were dry.

“Yeah. Ready, then?” 

Annabeth pulled her hair back into a high ponytail and reached for his hand. He smiled at their intertwined fingers before they left the apartment, the door clicking shut behind them. 

In the streets of New York, the celebration had already begun. As they headed to 5th Avenue, Percy could hear the sound of loud, unapologetic music as boisterous as the city was. It was beautiful. 

“Percy! Annabeth! Over here!” 

Rachel was waving, decked head to toe in rainbow colors. She was holding a camera that went off as they approached and grinned at them over the lenses. 

“Took you two long enough. What took you so long, was it—”

“No,” they both said at the same time. Percy scratched the back of his neck, and Annabeth looked away, her face pink. 

“Whatever you say,” Rachel said, winking. Someone tapped her shoulder - another art student, he figured - and she waved. “Anyway, I’ll leave you lovebirds alone.”

“Rachel,” said Annabeth, watching her go. Percy kept his eyes glued to her disappearing form; he’d always admired her bravery and openness. 

“Rachel,” he agreed. 

They walked together down the street. Around them, chaos raged. People of all sorts were here, arms lifted towards the sky. Flags fluttered in the wind. Someone was carrying a stereo that was blaring Halsey. 

Annabeth suddenly dragged him forward, her face lighting up. They weaved through the crowd to the side where a couple booths had been set up. On the table was an array of accessories: gaudy necklaces, little round buttons, bandanas, stickers, and even a couple containers of face paint. 

“Here,” said Annabeth, taking the pink. She rubbed her thumb in it, and before he could do anything, she drew a line across his cheek. Then came a thin strip of lavender, followed by a deep blue. Percy kissed her fingers.

“Your turn,” he told her. She pinned a little button to his collar and turned her face to the side so he could paint the colors on her face, too. 

Percy’s lines were messy, but the colors were bright and the message clear. He kept a thumb on her cheek before tucking his fingers into her hair. Annabeth seemed to get the message, lifting up on her toes and kissing him. 

In the background, someone shouted, “We’re here, we’re queer, we’re making it loud and clear! You’re valid, you’re real, don’t be ashamed for how you feel!”

Being here, surrounded by so many people whose hearts were so big and voices so loud, Percy felt at home. He’d struggled with himself for so many years— and now he was here, happy with both himself and with Annabeth. 

Faint music reached his ears, and Percy grinned.

“Let’s dance,” he said, and Annabeth blinked at him. 

“Uh, now?”

“Yeah,” Percy said, and she shrugged, wrapping her arms around his neck. He looped his one at her waist, thumbs hooking into the belt loops in the back. 

“Did I mention,” said Annabeth as they swayed, “you look really good in that skirt.”

“You think so?”

“Uh huh,” she said, and Percy spun her. They danced the way they’d been taught to, having been dragged into lessons by the Aphrodite cabin one summer. 

“I’m proud of you,” he told her, though she probably already knew that. Annabeth looked back at him. 

“Be proud of yourself, silly,” she replied, fingers tapping against his neck. 

They twisted out of the way of an incoming couple and then stepped over a drain. Percy silently thanked the Aphrodite cabin. 

The street wasn’t exactly the best dance floor. There weren’t any sparkling chandeliers or gowns, no suit and tie, but Percy loved it. Maybe slow dancing hadn’t been meant for the dance floor after all— it belonged here, to anyone who wanted to celebrate who they were. 

“I’m glad to be here with you,” Annabeth told him. 

“Bi here?”

She shoved him, but there was that laugh he loved. “Oh, shut up, Percy.”

He was more than happy to oblige as she pressed her lips to his. 

ah,, look what month it is,

pick one of the following and send me a pairing! (non-sexual acts of intimacy) no more pls!