#ataviisms

I’m so blessed to have spent this year meeting up with people I’ve met on this beloved hellsite.

okay. so. a lot of people think the sewers are gross. and they are. it smells like… well, you know. but it’s also a job. someone’s gotta keep the pipes clean. and someone’s gotta deal with the things that live in the pipes that aren’t supposed to be there. which is my job. mostly.

i wasn't hunting for him, technically. i was tracking a shipment of illegal, military-grade tranquilizer darts that had "fallen off a truck". which happens a lot. trucks are very clumsy. but my tracking led me down here. into the big, main sewer artery under the old industrial district.

and then i saw the signs. a huge, half-eaten fish head. some weird, giant claw marks in the moss. and a collection of bones that were definitely not rat bones. unless the rats in this city are the size of great danes. which would be a different, but also very serious, problem.

( peacemaker told me about this guy. said he was big, scaly, and very, very grumpy. and also that you should never call him a crocodile, because that's rude and also technically incorrect. he said to be respectful. )

i found him in a big, cavernous junction. he was just… there. sitting in the shallow, murky water. he was huge. bigger than the pictures. like a human, but if a human was also an alligator and a small truck. he was gnawing on a big pipe, making a horrible screeching sound. probably not good for the city’s plumbing.

he was a problem. a big, scaly, plumbing-destroying problem. but he wasn't really a "bad guy". a bad guy has a plan. a bad guy wants money, or power. this guy just seemed… hungry. and alone. like a stray dog. a very big, very dangerous stray dog that could probably bite a car in half.

and what do you do with stray dogs? you don't shoot them. that’s mean.

first, you have to show them you’re friendly.

i stayed in the tunnel, just at the edge of his big, watery cave. i didn’t want to startle him. that would be bad for both of us. i unwrapped the package i'd brought with me. it was a whole rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. the good kind. with the herbs on it. i gave a friendly, quiet whistle. a little "hey, i'm over here and i'm not a threat" whistle.

he stopped gnawing on the pipe. his head, his huge, reptilian head, slowly turned towards me. his eyes were small and yellow and they glowed a little in the dark. my voice was very calm. very gentle. the same voice you'd use on a scared puppy. or a very big lizard.

she stands beside him and wonders if he understands their unified similarities. how the ‘monstrosity’ he sees in himself is a Monstrosity she sees in herself. for her, his is absurd. impractical. he’s handsome and it’s impossible for people to understand that, and to her that doesn’t make sense. but she has an eye for beauty people don’t get. she sees the ruby crimson in his eyes, the emerald-deep of his scales, the way he’s thoughtful even on an expression that can manage only his range of expressions. and they’re so unique they are only his. she thinks that’s beautiful. really beautiful. like beautiful in a way people can’t ever get because they’re fucking stupid.

but she gets it. because she isn’t fucking stupid. (and frankly? her talent for not being fucking stupid and being super objective is incredible.)

it’s just her, nothing but a pair of lacy underwear and a black sports bra. the fresh bruises of the day are dark and terrible. her safe house, gifted by jason, has her personal touches. including a floor-to-ceiling mirrorwall in the bathroom for the purpose of removing various invasive objects (bullets) she can’t see. she blinks. again. standing there with her arms loose at her sides. selina’s achillean, but she loathes the sight of herself. the density of that muscle does nothing to pique her interest. she’s a well-oiled, well-built machine. her catsuit is a forgotten presence in the corner. her hair is dark, but her roots peek honey-gold so obvious the lights above illuminate a thin halo across her scalp.

“couldn’t tell you what that’s like. but i’m like… a movie star or whatever. but that’s not me. and i’m not me.” she points to the mirror, “and that’s not me, either.

send a 👫 and I’ll write four headcanons I have about our muse’s relationship.

every once in a while a video of waylon scaring tf out of some trespassing teen at the wastewater plant goes locally viral on social media and mary laughs every single time w.o fail

mary's tailor is very good at making very small clothes and she decided quite a while ago that this must mean he is also very good at making very LARGE clothes. ergo she has given him waylon's measurements and put them in touch

she is. ready to fight for/about him at all times. if there's someone running their mouth about 'the lizard man of gotham' or w.e they need to be careful bc there is a maelstrom of short blonde nails spit and teeth coming their way VERY willingly

the swamp was his territory. what had begun as a visit to his summer home had turned to this. make no mistake, clark was not complaining. not in the slightest.

the kryptonitan was laid on his back, flat, with both legs hiked in the air. there's pressure, as even with a good amount of preparation, waylon is still larger than most.

he didn't bother holding back the groan as killer croc gave the initial roll of his hips.

❝ waylon ---- ❞ it catches in his throat.

NSFW GIF PROMPTS.

❛ I wake up, but I'm still in my nightmares. ❜ Her mouth is so, so dry, fuck.