OLD DRABBLES
Reposting a bunch of old drabbles I did ages ago now. Unfortuantly it hasn't kept any of the markup as I transferred it and now it's huge so I guess I'm not going through it and doing it all again. ENJOY.
All under the cut, mosty mobsterswitch, many of them Troll!Switch; Scoff<3Scout, Scoff<>Innovator, Deadeye<3<Innovator / Deadeye <3<Scofflaw, Deadeye<>Scout
The pain in his indigo eyes stays your acid words. He cares he cares he cares your mind exalts, while conscious thought is fucking banished when he cups your face in hands as gentle as starlight to press your foreheads together. Your horns lock, and his eyes are half closed, and his breath is as sweet as the sorpor pies he used to eat.
"Pale as motherfuckin’ sea’s crest for you, you dumb shit," he murmurs against your lips, hands careful at your side and chest as he gathers you to him. You don’t even care of the impropriety of the situation right now. Let your new sycophantic nobles stare with mute, abject horror as a fucking Mirthful cultist cradles their new Emperor like he might break any moment.
"You horrible waste of troll," you whisper to him, not unkindly, and your pap to his cheek leaves a smear of fuchsia behind. "Yeah," he agrees, with a smile like a moonrise.
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Anonymous asked: Hmmm HMMMM something with Deadeye Detective and Pernicious Innovator for sure. I don't know what I guess that's up to youuu
You’ve fucked up. You’ve really, really fucked up and oh god, he broke your hands, your hands, shattered each bone in your palm cooly and efficiently. If you weren’t so wired from the pain and adrenaline you might have time to actually be terrified, but as it is you’re only interested. Interested in a white-walls-sterile-hands sort of way.
It’s poetic, almost, that you’ve been the one begging him to let loose his control for just one night. You had no idea. Not really. Sure, you could sort of see the great black shape looming inside his mind, but you never really caught the scale of it before.
You hear a cigarette lighter in the distance, and bite your ruined bottom lip to stifle the whimper. You can’t do anything with broken hands. You’ve run, but he’s still on your tail, and you’re bleeding and shaking and crying and you asked for this, you asked for this, you asked for this.
His eyes remind you so not ten minutes later, your blood on his hands and his cuestick and his lips and finally, blissfully, the ground.
---- --
Anonymous asked: I have a weakness for troll Scoofers and Inny gomen :x Maybe a little tiny bit more of those guys sometime one day?
"Shut up, you brute," you snap at him, but he just laughs at your voice. He looks like he’s glued to your relaxation shelf, limbs heavy and splayed out like he has no control. He laughs again and you sigh, and weary disappointment curls around your bloodpusher.
"I thought you were off the pies," you say as you settle beside him. His face goes wistfully blank, then indigo tears well up in his eyes and his skull mask facepaint scrunches disgustingly and he heaves a wet, choked sob. "He’s dead, Inny, oh god, he’s gone,” and oh. His matesprit, his flush, his heart. A rustblood, and you warned him about this, but his smile when the short stabby-horned troll was around was just too right to wipe away by insisting he give the quadrant up.
"Shoosh, my diamond, my glittering sea pearl," you don’t raise your voice above a murmur, and he curls into you, impossibly large, and wails and keens his grief out in your respite block like you’re only ten sweeps old again.
------ --
teacandy asked: archagent scoff and rebel scout shenanigans
You fucking hate Skaia. Oh, sure, you can see it’s uses, with all its space and resources, but it’s too bright and too fucking open and you wish you weren’t Archagent, for possibly the thirtieth time today.
It’s not even the horrible hour Prospitians call midday.
"Can we get this fucking over with already," you snap, and your rebel leader looks up from the maps you’ve just handed over with a frown. You frown right back, adjust the collar of your disguise and growl warningly at him when he grins.
"Here," he says as he holds out a flask. You uncap it and take a deep drink, and you definitely don’t sputter when the burn of whiskey hits your tongue. He notices, anyway, and laughs a little. "These are so fucking perfect it isn’t funny. I suppose you’ll want to know what we plan to do?" You just nod at him, and decide maybe Skaia isn’t so bad at all.
----- --
entropic-introspection asked: Soooo if you ship Scoff-{>Deadeye, what exactly would that look like? :3
"Fuck you,” you hiss at him, knife in one hand and fire in the other. He just give you a look like you’re scum of the earth, and fuck him, h doesn’t get to look at you like that. Your knife has his blood on it and his cuestick has yours. The night air stinks of copper and shadow as you circle each other. He’s too fucking perfectly matched to you for this. He’s got reach, and power, and speed, but you don’t need reach when you’ve got fire and shadow under your control. You’re plenty fast and strong enough without your rage and fury at him, and that hot red anger makes your blows more vicious and your aim sharper.
You’re sure he feels the same way, because his lips are curled up slightly like he’s laughing at you.
"Yeah, fuck you,” you reiterate, and lunge for him.
Later, when dawn is showing through muddy grey in the dark sky, you roll over him and fumble for his cigarettes. You hiss when his fingers find the long gash down your back and pry, then smirk at him, sated, as you light a cigarette.
You toss his packet at him and laugh, harsh and black, when it re-opens his split lip. His mouth tastes of blood, and cigarettes, and pitch. Next time, he’ll be the one begging.
----- --
Anonymous asked: The adventures of mobsterswitch'd Crawdad & Tea NOT SURE IF TEA AS IN TEACANDY/CAR OOOOR TEA AS IN LEAF WATER so here have the first
"Shit, girl, how do we do it." Crawdad laughs - well, giggles, really, as he empties another bucket carefully. There is the tang of brine and something else, something sharper.
"I guess by being simply the baddest there is?" Car grins wickedly over the rim of the tank, then hands another bucket around the side. She leans down to look into the massive glass construction, and coos delightedly when the dark shapes turn and scythe through the water.
"Seriously, a giant moray eel tank to drop our enemies in? Why didn’t we think of this sooner." Crawdad cackles madly as he pours the last bucket, only snapped out by Car’s light punch to his shoulder.
"Quit your mad science routine, we gotta prep their dinner."
---- --
Anonymous asked: something with troll scout and scoff? ovo
You pity the fuck out of this rustblood with horns like knives and too much anger for his tiny body. You could just fold him up and hold him close to you forever, forever, paint your wicked miracles on his skin and hold him up to the moons and declare your Flush for him to be as red as heresy, as red as red could ever possibly be.
But sweeps pass, and slowly he gets older, and you don’t change at all, until one day you sit by his withered body and hold his TINY fucking LITTLE hand and your MOTHERFUCKING WORLD FALLS ALL TO PIECES.
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Anonymous asked: im gonna ask for more mobsterswitch trolls but im torn between asking for inny and scoff, scoff and scout or inny and scout aghhh youre too good at writing i cant pick dgkjhfs
“Shit, motherfuckers,” you grumble, looking decidedly put out with the whole situation. “Do I need to motherfucking get you two a motherfucking auspitice in here?” You are fed up with their bickering, fed right the fuck up on fucking black barbs and ashen motherfucking pap.
Inny looks affronted and Scout turns on you, pissed as all get out, and if that motherfucker ain’t the cutest shit on this ship you’ll gut yourself here and now.
"Cause, see, I motherfuckin’ get the goddamn black miracles that all up and happen without your mitts on th’ fucking steering apparatus but do I gotta be the MOTHERFUCKING ONE TO REMIND YOU THAT YOU BOTH GOT MOTHERFUCKING PITCH MOTHERFUCKERS OF YOUR OWN ALREADY?" Your voice thunders out of you and your horns snap and burn with the slick nightmare wet of your chuckevoodoos, and then they do motherfucking cower away from you and fuck, fuck, motherfuck.
"Aw, shit, I’m sorry," you smother the voodoos before it reduces Scout to a ball of rust terror, and Innovator gives you a mildly thankful look before nodding.
((AAAH I am sorry it didn’t come out as well as I’d hoped))
---- --
Anonymous asked: How about Scout <> Detective? ;u; theyre p perfect moirails
"I just, fuck,” his hand is warm and soft between your shoulder blades, and he digs his knuckles into the tension there and slowly grinds it away. You press your face against his shoulder and you fall silent, for a long time, but he doesn’t press you to continue, just holds you and is held by you.
He is soothing in all the right ways. You wonder if your Kismesis and his moirail act like you and Scout do in private. You shudder with revulsion at that. You cannot imagine Innovator’s hands without imagining them broken and mangled. Can’t imagine Scofflaw’s hands shooshing away tension over gills without seeing them rent open and bleeding.
"I hate him so much,” and you curse yourself for sounding like a child, for sounding hatesick. "I know, D," he tells you, and he paps the mess of emotions away carefully, sweetly, as pale as fucking bone dust in the moonlight.
--- --
Anonymous asked: Scoff realizing he feels a ever-so-slightly red for that stabby little one-eyed rustblood?
"What are you motherfucking doing," you ask the small troll bent awkwardly over the other, unmoving on the ground. He stirs a little, but does not look at you. You see his has his hands in the other trolls pockets. "I said, motherfucker, WHAT ARE YOU DOING" he flinches, like all lowbloods do, but this guy straight up fucking bristles at your tone and turns on you still crouched low and ready to leap.
He has twin knives in his hands.
"Nah, shit, motherfucker, it ain’t like that," you tell him, and you hold your hands up, palms out, to show you aren’t holding your strifekind right now. He untenses, a little, then turns back to the body at his feet. You realize can see, now, that his side is sticky with blood, the most motherfucking captivating rust you’ve ever seen. The way the middling green splatter that’s all over him mixes with it is straight up Messiah damned heresy. He’s so god damn angry at the world, raking through his kills pockets trying to find anything useful with a litany of curses that could make a saltblood blush. Angry at the world like it owes him something and angry that it could dare try charity.
You are so flushed for this motherfucker right now, this fucker who takes a good fucking gander at your blood and turns his back on you like he ain’t got nothing to fear, this fucker who would take what’s owed to him from the cooling corpses of those who tried to take him down.
"Shit," you tell the corpse, and he doesn’t even look up at you when you crouch a safe distance away from him on the opposite side of his kill.
--- --
teacandy asked: you should write something about the troll mobsterswitch lusii
"She ain’t never done shit for me an’ mine," you tell Scout when he asks, when both of you are nodding off together in your ‘coon and morning is almost upon you.
"She never cares what I am or ain’t up to, like," Innovator gets, when he makes a passing comment about not seeing your lusus when you help him feed his Dad. You like Innovator’s lusus, when He sends up long waving tendrils that delicately touch your squawkblister and your ears and your nose, as quiet as quiet can be. "An’ I ain’t ever cared, either."
It’s all a lie. A big, fat, throbbing lie, pulsing in your psyche like a canker that you could only remove by clean evisceration. She cares, when she can remember to, when the sick indigo nightmare rage isn’t choking her thoughtsponge like a vice. She worries about you, you’re sure, when she’s her enough to think. But those moments were rare to begin with and almost nonexistent now, and it devours your waking thoughts when you’re alone on the rocky beach just below your hive.
Now, she’s only rage and hate when you cross each others’ paths, and each meeting leaves you a little more hollowed out for the seeing of her. You feel like someone has reached into your innards and casually rifled through them. You feel unsettled and seething, like black water currents, and more than once she has come for you. Come for you, her own sign and blood and kith, with poison fangs bared and spiny fins erect. Leviagundr lusii are rare, and terrible, and that terrible is your legacy, one she has writ on you with every meeting.
This time, when she erupts from the ocean stinking of rot with one eye dripping from her skull in pus and ichor and worse, you are almost relieved. I shoulda killed her sweeps ago, you think to yourself, and then your strifekind is in your hands and the hurt of her neglect takes you.
---- --
flyfloyd asked: troll scout and scofflaw where scout has a headache and scofflaw attempts to make him feel better? (gomen for being unexciting ahaha ;v;)
"Fuck off," you snap at him when he approaches your ‘coon. Your voice is too loud and Scoff can make walking across a clean goddamn floor a fucking symphony of pain or something, because every step you hear him take is like a gunshot right by your ear.
You sort of want to cry, curl up in a ball, and die. The headaches have never been this bad before, like the world is pressing in on your thoughts relentlessly. Something warm and spicy smelling is thrust under your nose and you almost gag and choke on sorpor from the strength of it. “Drink up, motherfucker,” he whispers to you, and oh, oh, he is so quiet for you right now, understanding. The drink is cooler than you expected, but as spicy as it smelled, and the tension in your head relaxes just slightly. White specks aren’t dancing in your vision as you open your eyes slowly, and you can make out the tall, dark shape of Scofflaw as he strides around, throwing blankets up over your windows to cut out on the light from outside your hive.
You’re surprised at how quiet and efficient he is about this. You wonder if he’s had headaches like this before, and you must have said something because your head starts pounding again from the simple movement of your jaw. No answer comes, not for a long while, and you let yourself sink back into the sorpor as he strips down. Even the sound of ruffling cloth is too much, and you make a grubs’ click of distress. This is all disgustingly pale, and you both have moirails, but he climbs in beside you and cradles your throbbing head in his huge, huge hands. For a moment you almost panic, imagine him giving a short twist of all his fingers and popping your head off clean like a cork.
Instead, he traces delicate patterns over the base of your horns and your skull and consciousness ebbs along with the pain.
----- --
teacandy asked: how about doomed timeline scoff and scout meet in death's office?
You’re aware of vomiting. The sound, the scent, the taste of it. It tastes exactly like broken dreams and midnight. Oh, and ink. A whole lot of fucking ink. You cough and splutter, despite knowing with crystal clear certainty that you’re dead, and no longer have a need to breath, but you still cough and splutter and choke for a breath that will not come, will never come again.
Some time passes. You’re aware of bony hands on your back and shoulders and face, but you can’t think right in only four dimensions and keep trying to shove him away with a limb that doesn’t exist anymore. You make a distressed noise, you think, or maybe it’s him, you don’t know, all you know is the ink in your throatmouthlungsbloodmind and you’re dead, you’re dead.
He hands you a glass of water when you’re done. You stare right into Death’s eyes and think this punk ain’t got nothing on Life, where is that fucker, but he will never come for you again. You’re dead. Scout is dead. It doesn’t really hurt any more. You don’t need to drink, but you do anyway. The sweet, clean water washes away the bitter and acrid burn of ink, and you manage your poor human vocal chords well enough to greet him.
He smiles at you, dead silent (hah), the opposite of Life in every way. You stare awkwardly at each other for what might be a minute, a month, an eon, a year, then he nervously motions you to follow him.
You do, of course. What else could you do in this fucking blank white wasteland? After an unknowable amount of time a black speck appears on the horizon. Death leads you in its direction. More time passes, and slowly that speck turns into a blob and then a very far off door. There is a table, and a person. You risk a look behind you, and all there is is white for ever, forever, on and on and on and it makes your stomach roil. You turn back to the door, and the figure, and hope.
It’s Scout, of course. The Universe has a way of throwing the two of you together, over and over, and you suppose even in death that doesn’t change.
Scout leads you, laughing, through the door marked cheerfully Afterlife.
---- --
maybeitsavirus asked: AU where Scofflaw is dead and Innovator turns control of the Scoundrels over to the girls so he can be a lonely hermit while the ladies get all the action
Bawd had picked up your books some months ago. The phone calls had stopped coming quite so frequently weeks ago. Doxy stopped coming around to see you days ago.
You are PERNICIOUS INNOVATOR and you are no longer a Twilight Scoundrel. No, you are just an overthinking oversensitive overanxious wreck twenty four seven, which isn’t so different from before, but now there is no Scofflaw to yell or threaten or coddle you. There is no Scofflaw at all, in fact.
Hadn’t that been a blow.
Doxy and Bawd do incredibly well. You’ve listened to their escapades on the radio, when you remember you own one not disassembled for the component parts, with something like fondness. Bawd is just as good as you with, well, everything you did (everything, essentially) and Doxy is the same charismatic bitch Scofflaw was, so there really wasn’t any sense in saying no when Bawd had said
Had said
When Bawd had said “You’ve done nothing these past months, Innovator. Do you even wish to continue doing this?” and you had said “No.” Screamed it, in fact. In her face, at the top of your lungs, with fire and shadow on your lips.
You hadn’t taken Scofflaw’s death very well at all. None of you had, but you the worst.
You roll over on your couch and try not to cry, for the fifth time this morning. It’s a losing battle. You try not to think around the pounding of your headache. It’s very insistent right now, loud boom boom booms that sound -
Sound.
Someone is pounding on your door. You debate, through the pain, if it’s even worth getting up for. You stare at it from where your lying, and decide no, no it really isn’t. Whoever it is will go away eventually. Everyone does. Scofflaw did, no matter how many times he promised otherwise. Oh, you’re crying again. You must have made some sort of noise, because the knocking is louder. The pain makes you cry harder, which makes the pain worse, and now you’re wailing and screaming and burning up, burning molten and white hot and
and
Detective kicks your door in.
---- -- flyfloyd asked: scout falling asleep in weird places and amusing scoff when he finds him?
Scout has the habit of sleeping in some very odd places. You understand, really, because you and Innovator did (and still do, in Inny’s case) the same. It makes sense to choose somewhere defensible to rest, especially during war and especially during Exile.
Scout just … never stopped. It makes you smile and laugh when you find him packed into the space between his fridge and his pantry, or in the space between the wall and his couch, back pressed to the wall behind him and head resting on the wall to his side. You’ve found him in cupboards and under desks and once, in a non-functional fridge. This time, he’s in your linen closet, head pillowed on old towels with a worn and faded blanket twisted in his hands. He looks like he’s strangling something in his dreams, and it appears to be pleasant. He’s smiling, anyway.
You don’t wake him up, you just curl up in the open door on a pool of curtains and go to sleep with him.
---- --
anonymous asked: prompts... um... i'm not good at these but... maybe... Inny attempting caliginous flirting with detective?? it all goes as well as imagined
The thing you really need to remember is that Innovator is a bulge-damned Tyrian. His frame is slight, and bony, but the muscles on him are like reinforced plasteel and his grip is like that of His Honorable Tyranny himself, relentless in their pressure.
You really need to remember he is the Child of Gl’bgolyb, and you are just a lowblooded landweller who could never hope to match. You hate him so fucking much for all his wasted potential. All his wasted life.
That still doesn’t distract from the arm across your throat, steadily and inexorably cutting off your oxygen. Your ears ring from the pitch of his voice, untrollishly high and shrieking like the deadly voice of his Lusus. "I said,” there is no trace of his stutter, now, and his words drip thick and caustic as acid as you snarl in his face. You don’t understand what comes next, because the words refuse to order properly in your head, and your thin unsteady supply of oxygen is promptly cut off as he rips into your lips with his teeth in a bloody, brutal kiss.
----- ---
zombie-fairy asked: for prompt thing, write something with the whole troll!company together?
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.
It might not be healthy, but fuck it, you’re all in this together.
----- --
anonymous asked: prompt thing, dear little rustblood scout losing his arm and scoff reacting to it?
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. You see him swallow, once, then stares you down, unblinking, a pure paragon of Legislacerative Justice. Motherfuckers are going to die tonight, and you’ll be laughing a merry fucking storm while they dance the gallows two-step.
--- ---- -
zombie-fairy asked: how about one of those times where someone walks in on scout/scoff making out
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.
What you don’t appreciate is the rest of his cohort turning up at his hive while you’re getting your flush on. Nor do you appreciate his helpless laughter at the absurd situation, but you guess you can cut him some slack.