#trollswitch

There usually ain’t much time for you and your flush these days. Your job keeps you as busy as all motherfucking get out, and his has him on jobs for nights at a time. Sometimes longer. Most nights you’ll manage to catch him for a half hour, maybe, or there’ll be just enough time to eat together, but that shit don’t hold. That shit don’t quell, that shit don’t sit.

You savor the times you can spend with him in your arms, when the night has no unfaithful to get your fury on at, has no criminals for your matesprit to get his knives into. Times like these are little flitting things, things to be caught and kept.

I want to write, but have no real ideas of my own, so.

There’s a pain that’s been growing in the base of your horns all night, sharp like a horn crack and as crushing as a vice. You find you do not have the energy to stand over him, and you have to sit, scrunched up too tight in a chair that doesn’t fit in a world that is straight up fucking blasphemous.

Scout tosses and turns and moans in pain and fear for a few moments, then his face goes slack and loses the pinched up, pained look it had. His breathing comes a little easier, now it’s not wet and slick with his rust. His arm lies clean and bandaged and he will heal, of course he fucking will, Scout can’t die from shit like this.

You might just fly apart in rage, though. Your horns burn and sing with your voodoos and you can’t stop it, don’t want to, you can smell the stink of fear from the docterrorist two cubicles over. The greasy sick slick wet of his fear against your pan is calming, but it’s not enough.

Innovator drags you away from your matesprit and you fight him tooth and claw every step of the way. You don’t succeed, and he almost breaks your arm twice to get your compliance, but he paps and soothes away the unthinking bite of your anger, digs his fingers into the base of your skull so you can feel his claws, presses his forehead to yours so his tyrian eyes eclipse your world of fury.

The next night, you approach Deadeye. Even he shrinks away from you as you loom in the door of his hive, and he gets a handle on his fear quickly. Not before you’ve tasted it, like ashes and gunpowder and leather, but even his fear is not enough. Only blood will suffice tonight, only the motherfucking Dark Carnival will give you succor.

"Motherfucker, as motherfucking faithful servant I goddamn demand legislacerator witness to my MOTHERFUCKING RIGHTEOUS REAPING.” Chucklevoodoos leak out of you, and you are every inch the Subjugglator, Church and Law giving you freedom to straight up cull any motherfucker you think is a motherfucking eyesore.

The four of you are a pretty tight group. You suppose it comes with the job, tracking down the unlawful killers and thieves. Of course, plenty of dead bodies turn out to be justified, or perfectly lawful, according to Alternian society, but you do what you can. It’s a steady job and none of you have died from it yet, so you suppose it could be worse.

Tonight’s been a particularly good night, your quarry chained safely to the wall in the little psi-reinforced holding cell at the back of your workhive. Brawler is busy making sure Demo’s eyes track properly on his one raised finger while Detective presses a cold compress unceremoniously against the back of your head. You hiss and spit at him but reach up to press it against your skull as he slides onto the comfort bench beside you.

"Fucking psi-actives," you mumble, watching Demo bounce agitatedly on his chair. The yellow streaks of his blood matting his hair look dry and crusted already. Trolls heal fast, after all, but with psi-active trolls you can never be too careful.

"He’s fine," Brawler says, and the room collectively lets out a small breath. You’ll make it back to your hive and your matesprit and your ‘coon soon enough, but right now there is only this room, and these three other people.

sitting in my hotel room, left my drawing shit in the artist alley room, don't wanna go to bed yet... yeah let's write a short trollswitch fic

features: Troll!Scoff <> Troll!Inny