Work Text:
Sollux Captor would be the first to tell you that he wasn't exactly suited for thundering speeches or inspiring gestures. That being said, he'd decided to take the initiative, just this once, to keep up the morale of the rebellion. That being said, he was trying to take a Meme Worthy picture of his dearest kismesis, one Commander Eridan Ampora.
It wasn't going well.
His first attempt had involved Eridan being asleep at his desk, and it would've gone off without a hitch if Eridan hadn't woken up halfway through, broke his palmhusk, and–
Ahem.
His second attempt was much better planned. Eridan did this absolutely hilarious face when he was startled, complete with a very drastic finflare-slash-sweep combo. All he had to do was make some sort of loud noise, have a palmhusk rigged on a timer, and boom. Perfect meme.
Only Eridan hadn’t even blinked at the loud noise. The most he’d done was a raise an eyebrow and offer up a condescending snort.
Okay. This was personal.
You’ve learned that Eridan doesn’t always do well with sour. Those puckered faces that were formerly only a thing in the wriggler cartoons came to life when he had something too sour. Your past two attempts had taught you that taking on Eridan earlier in the night meant that he would be ready for anything—it probably came from all of the volunteer wrigglersitting you all had to do.
This time you’d waited until it was nearly morning. Eridan looked exhausted, and you’d commiserated with him over the sheer volume of paperwork running one of these damn things generated. He hadn’t even noticed you switching out his standard-issue mobile water containment with yours.
He had noticed the extra sour lemonade.
And the husktablet.
Unfortunately for him, you were out the door and running before he could get up from behind his desk. Sorry about those bootlaces tied together, pitchlove, you’ve got no idea how that could’ve happened. Ever.
You caption the photo “when ur lemonade tastes like caste inequality and systematic prejudices artificially instilled by a quasi immortal fish dictator” and send it around to every inbox, tape it up in a few hallways.
It goes viral.
Two days later, there’s a picture of you sparking in your sleep (which you only do sometimes) in your inbox, captioned “when u daymare about fish dictator”.
“And that, wrigglers,” you say, with no little satisfaction, to your class of eight-sweep-olds, “is how the Great Meme War of aught-nine began. It’s in your history books. Chapter Eleven, page 340, subsection–”
The door slams open. One Professor Eridan Ampora, aka former Commander of Her Imperial Radiance’s Revolution, aka one of the most powerful trolls alive, aka matesprit to the Radiance, aka your kismesis, is standing there, all but steaming, pieces of duct tape stuck haphazardly across his outfit. There’s even one poking out of his hair.
You grin. He’s ditched the pompous jewelry, what with all the tinies that used to try at grabbing it, but he’s kept the scarf and the overwhelmingly violet theme, and you know he misses the cape. “Snookums! We were just talking about you!”
“Get. The fuck. Out.”
“But I’m your guest lecturer for the day!”
Eridan snarls, picks you up (you’re highkey lowkey turned on) and hurls you out of his classroom. You’re impressed. You’re also catching yourself with your psionics on the way out, you’ve even got time to wave at his students (who may or may not be traumatized for life) before he slams the door shut. Wait for it.
Click.
And there’s the lock. Not bad for a half night’s work. Besides, it meant he’d be stuck in class late, and you’d have first dibs on kissing Feferi senseless. Double or nothing indeed.