#brutalscaled

[geckoodles]

Slowly breaking back into digital commission works with a batch of icons for @brutalscaled !

[psychxpxthic]

✍️?

|| Send ✍️ and I’ll draw your muse! | 𝑨𝑪𝑪𝑬𝑷𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 ||

ooc;; Killer croc need more love

[the-smallest-star]

“Anyone messes with my friend Croc-”

“I’m kicking them in the no no spot.”

[masquenoire]

It's been almost a day since Croc and Otis had gone for a supply run, with no word from either of them. A box has arrived for Roman, no sender or markings to make note of. Inside is a familiar black vest and a note: "Intervene in any way and you'll recieve a body part next. This goes for all of his pretend family."

Gloved fingers tap on his new wooden desk, glancing at his phone every so often. Still no messages from either Croc or the Ratcatcher. Roman idly looks away, continuing with his work but it’s hard to pay attention to. Numbers bleed into one another, meaningless scribbles becoming more erratic as his fingers convulse and twitch. A shot of whiskey quickly becomes two, doing nothing to improve his mood as the pen jolts when a knock is heard at his office door, broken nib spilling ink across the page. ”The fuck do you want?” Is Roman’s imminent response as one of the muscle peeks inside, his rugged face coy as he holds up a box in his hands. Roman snarls, white teeth glittering against the darkness of his mask as he rises in high temper, striding over to the man and snatching the box before shoving him back aggressively, slamming the door behind him. Gormless schmuck. The box is light in his hands and immediately he gets a bad feeling about it. A quick jostle indicates nothing untoward; it’s light as air almost, suggesting nothing questionable though he knows better after living in Gotham his whole life. Still, it had gotten past security which suggested there wasn’t much to worry about. Opening the box put that thought out of his head instantly. The scent of damp and earthern copper hits what’s left of his nose right away, the familiar smell of the sewers he’d dumped the many bodies of his victims bringing to mind the face before he can even say his name. Roman’s blood burns like fire as the lid falls off, revealing the note and the black vest he’d come to associate with Croc. Oh. Oh. Roman’s eyes swivel in their sockets, the whites of his eyes flashing like that of a mad beast as the air freezes in his lungs. The fire rises, blood rushing through his veins as the edges of his vision go red for a brief instant before his fingers grip the box, the pupils of his eyes shrinking to mere pinpricks as he comes to his senses. He knows this game. He’d been playing it since he was 17 fucking years old, kidnapping his first victim in hopes of a quick ransom. Clumsy. Clumsy he’d been in those days, but the years of violence and constant danger had sharpened his bloodlust to a fine point, the desire for retribution keeping his new desk safe for the time being. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Croc and the Ratcatcher’s journey hadn’t ended as it should have, and that Chimera finally had their missing experiment. Nothing about Otis had been mentioned and whether he lay dead in the sewers wasn’t much of a concern to Roman right now. If he wasn’t dead, he’d soon beg to be if Roman ever managed to get ahold of the slimy little rat fuck. It had been his idea, his plan to go along with this fucking ridiuclous buddy system and it didn’t take a genius to suss out some form of backstabbing was involved, the little rat-faced fucker. The fire rises along with the heat in his blood and red in his vision as he stared transfixed at the note, then back to the tattered vest which seemed to have a new hole in it that wasn’t there before. A deep breath is exhaled and the fire along with it as Roman becomes all business, a new mission in mind. “Rocco, Dante. Vieni.” These are his only words as he calls his dogs over by name. The rottweiler brothers spring up from their dark corner, stumpy tails wagging as they seek to do their master’s bidding. Wet noses sniff the vest he’s holding up furiously, a vague flash of recognition shining in their canine eyes as they pick up Croc’s scent and lick their lips with a whine before Roman flicks out his phone. “Cancel everything on schedule. I want everybody ready and waiting for new orders before nightfall and I mean everybody.” A body part? He’d wait for it. Croc was a tough cookie who’d dealt with worse, Roman knew that much, and Roman had eyes all over the city too. He had the money, he had the resources and by god he had the manpower to get what he wanted - and what he wanted most of all right now was the location of that fucking lab, to find out where they’d taken his ally. ”Pretend family, huh? Ain’t no fucking pretending about what I’m gonna do when I find out where ya’ll are.” Roman says, dogs sniffing the letter eagerly as they salivate in anticipation of work. His eyes fell upon the knife collection hanging up on the wall. Blunt blades hurt a lot more than sharp ones, he’d learned a long time ago and took a lot longer cutting through human flesh. With a free schedule, he had a lot of free time to indulge and research some new torture methods.

[ectoamerican]

@brutalscaled continued from {here.}

Phantom turned his head to hear better over the sound of water coming from the broken down stalls. Sure enough, there were footsteps hurrying towards them quickly in the distance. Not that he doubted Croc at all.

He just had time to mentally thank their luck that it sounded like there was only one person on the way to them. Danny didn't process the situation enough though, feeling overwhelmingly tired from pushing himself to stay awake for as long as possible. Otherwise he'd have thought to hide the both of them from whoever was here besides the two of them.

For some reason once the footsteps stopped at the door, there was a pause. A male voice called out from behind the washroom door as the knob turned. "I swear, if it's actual clowns again I'll--!!"

A man in a guard uniform opened the door, a gun in hand. Only to nearly drop the gun in fear when he realized the Killer Croc was in the room. He didn't know who the other person was, but he didn't need to, to know to be afraid of the larger of the two. The guard's hands trembled visibly and he swore under his breath as he lifted the weapon back up, pointing it at Croc.

Danny could only blink as he registered the scene unfolding in front of him. Surely the guy didn't think that dinky little gun could do anything? Why not run away instead?

[king-crane]

@brutalscaled​

CONTINUED FROM HERE: x

Astounding.

For a moment, Crane’s eyes were glued to his accomplice. When he had asked Waylon to open the display, he had expected something much slower and methodical. After all, that glass was bulletproof and heavily reinforced, adding further fire to the claim that the artifact was authentic. And yet, the Killer Croc, King of Gotham’s Under-Underworld, had smashed it open as if it were little more than a nuisance. And he had retrieved the artifact intact. A new appreciation for Waylon made itself known to Crane, but he tucked it away beneath his rising panic. He had enough gems and jewels and relics to repay Waylon, at least for now.

With one last look back at the remains of what was once the museum, Crane resisted the urge to spit contemptuously. The rising smoke in the air was as potent as it was rank, and Crane was, not for the first time, immensely glad that he always kept a gas mask and respirator on when in full attire.

Shaking his head, Crane mourned once for the history he would be taking with him from the museum, but it was for a good cause. Progress. Hope. Innovation. Soon enough, there would be no need to recount the past when the future would be so bright.

One last nod, and Crane followed his guide to the maintenance hatch. Without thinking, the lanky man threw himself down into the depths, grateful that he had landed on his feet, and even more grateful that the acrid fires and smoke above were no longer dancing in the air and threatening his sanity.

Grunting, Crane turned to his accomplice and sized him up. The job had been relatively simple, but it had taken a turn for the traumatic there. He would have to clear things up.

“...I suppose this does not leave a good impression as a partner, all things considered, but I panicked. The pyromaniac is...” Crane swallowed thickly as his left arm (or what was left of it) seized up at the memory, and he decided to leave it be. “In any case, you are reliable, and you did excellent work. I know we’re not out of the proverbial woods yet, but... here.”

Reaching upwards in an attempt to reach the ten foot giant, Crane handed a burlap sack forth...

...before he remembered that it might not be such a good idea to give an unmarked bag to the man after they had just escaped such a tense situation. Grunting, Crane reached in, only to pull out a handful of rubies, diamonds, emeralds and the like.

“Extra payment. I’m not sure if you took enough for yourself, so I went to the liberty of doing so for you.”

[draggeddowntothedark]

Ick usually stuck to above ground investigations when it came to his cryptid hunts. It was safer, for one, it was easier to escape if he was out in the open. And for two, it was more relaxing to walk through the woods than some dreary underground tunnels.

But sometimes the urge to explore and investigate was too much to pass up on. So there he was, walking through Gotham's sewers, swinging his flashlight from side to side, humming because the acoustics down here were something else... and so far believing he was alone, save for maybe some rats.

[babydxhl]

👫?~

send a 👫and I’ll write four headcanons I have about our muses’ relationship

She calls him a lot, and doesn't even like it if he answers — calling old burner phones to leave long, rambling voicemails in the middle of the night, pretending she doesn't have a clue what he's talking about if he ever tries to bring it up.

If they're in Arkham together she will pull strings to go see him in his cell. Usually it's when she not........ doing great let's say, so there's a lot of sitting by the bars and chattering at him, telling him what's going on in the rest of the asylum, filling him in on the drama. Nothing he's all that interested in, but it fills the endless silence of Arkham for just a little while.

Adding to this, she'll also let slip which guards are new, which are lazy, which ones he might be able to take an easy swing at — usually they're the ones she's sifted through first as not easily manipulated, and it's an easy way to get them out of circulation.

If she's annoyed with him or just feels like being belligerent: crocodile bag. crocodile shoes. crocodile hair clips. pls mary the tailor is begging you to stop