#ataviisms

[unspokcn]

[breed.] sender fucks receiver deep and finishes inside. (Harper)

/ this took me forever and i'm so sorry. 😞

the snarl had rippled against her ear and she felt it before she even succumbed to what she knew was going to happen.

harper rose was considered resilient for always taking the cases dropping her into the belly of gotham's sewers. the homicide detective had more than proven she can handle it.

because this had become a ritual neither of them enjoyed being without for long. disguised as deaths in the sewers or nearby.

just a very lewd tryst. that's been going on for months now.

she feels sharp claws carefully shifting clothes aside. not tearing or ripping. no. though the adjustment of her shorts put more pressure against her already strained cock.

she digs her nails into the brick wall, her trenchcoat sliding down along her back. she takes a moment to drop it away.

his large maw drips saliva along her shoulderblade. as his paw flexes around the side of her throat.

it's a matter of seconds—before his hips slam into her with brute force, filling her—a strangled cry escapes her.

@ataviisms.

[hagiophagya]

🔪 for the giallo meme

don't torture a duckling (1972, lucio fulci)

a reporter and a promiscuous young woman try to solve a series of child killings in a remote southern italian town rife with superstition and a distrust of outsiders.

giallo recs. @ataviisms

[hagiophagya]

Dibs 🗣

love u twin @ataviisms

[babydxhl]

"trouble's always gonna find you, baby, but so will i."

preacher's daughter sentence starters | still accepting.

The grin that splits her face as she looks up at him in the doorway twinges at the still-purpling bruise that swallows up the curve of of her jaw; her fingertips, reaching as easily and automatically for his sleeve as they always have, are scrubbed raw from the ever fruitless effort to clear the asylum's lemon chemical scent from the cuticles.

"Aren't you trouble?" she asks, and then, because he's the first face she's really seen in the days since the breakout, since the running and hiding and scrambling up the fire escape, she laughs once. A little bark of sound. Relief creeps into her tone.

"You found me."

[clawsextended]

hey kat, have you seen any juggalo nurses lately?

FUCK ME.

IT’S JUGGALO NURSE.

I THINK JUGGALO NURSE IS GENDER NEUTRAL.

I THINK ANYPONY CAN BE JUGGALO NURSE.

@ataviisms

[asoulofstars]

Oh, I did survive my flight and am now curled up with @clawsextended and a surprise @ataviisms!

We’ve watched The Dark Knight and are watching The Dark Knight Rises.

[asoulofstars]

Y’all, there are only two more sleeps before I get to see @godblooded / @clawsextended !!!

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

Kat, Boar, and Taylor all welcomed me right into the DC rpc, and I’m so grateful to have made /get to make some fantastic memories with them all in person.

[babydxhl]

it wasn't pretty like the movies, it was ugly like what they all did to me.

willoughby tucker, i'll always love you sentence starters | still accepting.

Mary knows there is a nicer veneer over everything that has ever happened to her. A layer of performative prettiness, a need for perfection that has somehow strangled the more violent parts of it into submission. No forward facing bruises, no less-than-1000-watt smiles, everything ugly secreted away until the exact moment it all bubbles over.

It is the way it is. She has never felt ashamed of it, not until now, when Waylon's words — pretty, ugly — set something prickling at the nape of her neck, and she's reminded again of the differences between them both that Mary often ignores in favour of picking out their similarities with the desperate fervour of an obsessive.

It's easier, sometimes, to forget that he had also once been very small. That it might hurt him more than it does her to see small things suffer.

"I'm sorry I asked," she says after a long moment, the apology unfamiliar — reigning in an instinctive disingenuity that wants to creep its way in — in her mouth. Sorry, really, for asking about that last time in Blackgate, about what had gone on there, at what had gone on before, sorry for always prying with little fingernails at what he wanted to keep away.

She folds her arms on the tabletop and settles her chin on them, peering up at him through her eyelashes. Her brows draw together — the way her eyes flick across his face is like someone searching for answer, explanation, meaning in an abstract art.

"I—" She starts and then stops, sits up, frowns at her hands. Her fingernails scratch just a little at the woodgrain. "I just want to understand," she says finally, quietly, both as if speaking to herself and as if, suddenly, very tired of herself.