Beforus Sollux! Elevated to a government position of great height and splendor thanks to his blatant genius coupled with Her Imperial Incandescence’s fast and loose take on the hemospectrum.
(THIS REQUEST NIGHT WAS ON 4/13)
The Moniitor was not only responsible for the surveillance of what was almost the entirety of the empress’s purview, but also had influence over other branches of the government due to quadrant links: an unabashedly publicized matespritship with the highest law authority, palemates with the Most Benevolent Cullmaster, and making surreptitious pitch movements towards the Candesce? You’d almost think he planned it…
Disclaimer: I’m making this stuff up as I go along. These are by no means fixed headcanons and although I’m basing these relationships on the dancestors’ (in the same way that the Alternian ancestors mirror their descendants in some ways), I do not in any way mean to imply that Meenah and Mituna had anything near a kismessisitude. They just obvs. don’t like each other much and it just seemed like a fun twist on Sollux and Feferi.
Roman looked at him, he looked into his eyes and for a fleeting moment his own candesced in that same cat’s eye way that had first attracted Peter’s attention in the first place, and he said with a kind of rote inflection as though feeding an actor his line, “but his old lady’s gonna be a pain in the balls.”
Summary: With nothing left to do but wait for the birthday boy to come home and celebrate, Aoba is struggling to keep himself occupied. When Ren helpfully suggests he follow his lead and take a nap, Aoba finds himself climbing into bed.
Overwhelmed by the scent of the man he’s missing, Aoba’s mind - and hands - begin to wander.
Little does he know his lover is a lot closer to home.
Notes: This is my contribution to kouao-week (day 3) and is the hippo’s birthday gift.
Set right after 5x15: “Bash” (warnings for explicit sexual situation and mentions of assault)
It’s a soft bed, duvet pushed down to the foot and rumpled sheets under him, and Blaine’s hands are on the button of his pants, then rolling them down his legs. Kurt stretches into the touch and sighs. His body is aching and buzzing at the same time, tender-real in parts and endorphin-rushed from his performance everywhere else.
on frosted glass pane,
the steady cascade
of steaming water,
incorrect vision a-blur —
Twas as if a hand swept
over a canvas fresh with paint
and all was blend into one:
pain, bliss, fortune, dismay,
blue, red, smite, caress,
hope, despair, distaste,
and I, held breath,
wet with wonder,
whence a rainbow ribboned
taut round my blue blood-pump.
What is poetry without passion
without the essence of defining
self with facials and abstractions
without the dancing metaphors
expenditures in confections
words sweet, hot dripping wet
sext? What is poetry without names
flying high across egoic sky
“See Me Fly” so proud of rhyme
or near with time skipping
between letters, sheet spilling
seeds into the garden? Pardon my
flaming fucking flowing POETRY
candescent with whiskey and cigarettes
(in which I partake of neither)
As a geyser
smothering the reader in ethereal
(pleasing beyond mundane) wrapping
this soul in letter form, transform(ing)
I write to write about writing.
Cup after cup of coffee…
What, is poetry… without passion?