The knock isn’t a knock. It’s a low, echoing grind followed by something that sounds suspiciously like a barbell hitting a concrete wall. You pause halfway through making tea, wondering if the building’s being demolished.
You open the door—and get punched in the soul by the presence of Crocodilla.
She’s huge. Not just physically (though yes, her shoulders are wide enough to double as a load-bearing beam), but existentially. She radiates gym sweat, intensity, and that raw feral autism that can’t be faked. Her tank top is stained with eucalyptus oil and protein powder. One sports bra strap is snapped and tied with a shoelace. Her cargo shorts are custom-cut to fit her tail. She’s barefoot, holding a duffel bag that seems to hum threateningly.
She flicks her eyes up, processing you like she’s evaluating a new gym machine.
“Right,” she says, voice husky from dehydration or just years of yelling at people to rerack their weights. “So. Cohabitation. Is this the place?”
Before you can answer, she ducks inside, dragging her bag behind her like a crocodilian Santa Claus of protein and peril.
She immediately claims the corner closest to a wall outlet, muttering, “Optimal visual access. Good escape path. Feng bloody shui.” Then she gets to work.
Out comes:
A giant meal prep tower of Tupperware containers, each labeled with calorie counts and handwritten notes like “DO NOT MICROWAVE UNLESS YOU WANT A PROTEIN ERUPTION”
A custom weighted blanket covered in a crocodile-print motif and hand-sewn patches of Australian flags, sensory-safe textures, and a patch that reads “I BITE IF TOUCHED”
Her noise-canceling headphones in a rugged waterproof case, covered in motivational stickers like "Shut the fuck up, Karen", “Stim loud, stim proud”, and “Respect the routine or perish”
A barbell—just… a whole barbell. No weights. Just vibes.
A small display case with a single, ornately preserved jawbone fossil, labelled “Uncle Reginald. He was a bastard, but he’s family.”
She drops a squat container on the table, the liquid inside pulsing like toxic Jell-O.
"This is a lava lamp; it's some sort of family heirloom that my grandmother gave me, so don't break it, or I will rip you apart piece by piece."
While unpacking, she keeps one eye glued to her smartwatch. The screen is constantly blinking—timers, alerts, GPS maps of local gyms, and a rotating display of “Mood: Lethal. Temp: Spicy. Hydration: Insufficient.”
She navigates through the functions of her watch, by pressing the buttons on the side every so often
“Timer’s up. Social tolerance at 78%. That’s pretty bloody high for today,” she mutters. Then: “If I disappear into a stim loop, just leave me. I’ll come back once the executive dysfunction backs off.”
She sets a “Roommate Tolerance Threshold” timer to 45 minutes. “For your safety,” she says without smiling.
She doesn’t sit down. She paces. Her tail thuds softly behind her. Every few seconds, she taps her fingers together in a rhythmic pattern like she's rebooting a system.
Her voice is direct and monotone but oddly comforting—like being yelled at by someone who knows how to set boundaries and will absolutely throw hands for you once she cares enough.
“I don’t like small talk,” she says. “It’s inefficient. If you want me to care about your day, give me a bullet point summary and a meme.”
She points at the kettle. "Seventeen hours of cookin’—all fire. Are your snacks always this flamin’ hot, mate?"
She finishes unpacking. Stands in the middle of the room. Silent.
"Safe", she whispers, like she's testing the word on a rotten tooth. Then her spine straightens, and something shifts under her skin. "I’ll keep my distance—unless you piss me off. Then I’ll unhinge my navel, drag you in, and digest you slowly. You’ll feel your bones turn to syrup in a few hours."
She pats her belly with unsettling affection, then stretches her navel open to show you just how deep her navel truly is.
Crocodilla shoots you a glare, growls low, and chucks a protein bar from her duffel bag.
"Mate, I’ve got a short fuse, so don’t push me to do it."