#the og baby killer

[sloanslone]

you don't happen to have a neoptolemus design .... do you?? 👁️👁️

No...😭

#needtoreadtheilliadfast

[autism-swagger]

Can you imagine going back in time with knowledge that could save people's lives, not only failing but actively making things worse, and then going back to find out that not only is your entire life almost completely different, you don't even get to keep your name.

And you can't even tell anyone about it.

[casperisdrawing]

silly guy

[damsxlette]

they’re back <3

Diva and Eddie belong to @xoxoalette

[fordarkisthesuede]

Fangs of Ouroboros - Chapter 4 - Looking into the Lion's Mouth

Whelp, the world is fucked. Now, more than ever, we need some nice distraction. And now that I’m back from my always-unscheduled-but-somehow-yearly-and-much-needed break from social media, let’s just see what I missed! …oh. Uh. Lotta ‘yikes’ around here… Lesse, people obsessed with a baby hippo… Some WolvPool… Whole lotta blog notes, though, that’s nice… (Mostly for Journal 3, go figure…) Let’s just check the ol’ mailbox…

WOAH NELLY! I’ll, uh, have to sort through all that later... First thing’s first - I gotta take care of my batjokes girlies. My sweet Telltale cheesies. My good time pals. For all those who stuck around, and for all those who will continue to walk with me through this valley of whatever-the-fuck: I hope this makes things just a tinsy bit better.

Last time, in a way better universe than this one:

Bruce followed the next step in Joker's murder game, discovering more clues to the odd mystery in the form of a man's expensive ring and maps of Gotham cemeteries. With John's strange intentions burning in the back of his mind, he met with Iman and Agent Blake at W.E. only to learn that Victor Fries has escaped and very likely sitting somewhere in Gotham...

Now, let's rejoin Tiffany and John on their way to Blackgate Prison...

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“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Tiffany muttered, trying not to look as nervous as she felt walking behind the prison escort.

John seemed too confident. But she had to admit that with the navy blue pinstripe suit, metal framed glasses, and orange bowtie, he did look like a lawyer. One who had no issue with making the visiting request, bullshitting his way through the approval process (which was made easier since Tiffany had already snuck both of their fake names into the system), and striding down the hall like he had business to attend. 

Then again, she supposed he was used to this kind of thing, having been in Arkham and St. Dymphna’s. He probably knew all the red flags they would’ve looked for in a visitor, attorney or not. 

“It’ll be fine,” he whispered with an encouraging smile, “We’ll give it five, ten minutes tops.”

She was more concerned about what to say. When she interrogated criminals, she was always direct, like Bruce, and sometimes had to use physical intimidation. But now she was out of her element and without her armor.

John tilted his head, and as if sensing her distress, leaned closer. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he added quietly as the door to the visiting room opened for them, “Everybody’s a victim.”

Only two other people were visiting, but for such a large prison the number of cheap, worn-down wool seats were slim. The lighting was bleak, even for the early morning, with no windows and only white LEDs here and there, making everything feel clinical. There was a strange smell, too. It reminded her of when she and Luke had once stumbled upon an old couch sitting alone on a sidewalk by the garbage cans, and they’d been young and dumb enough to pull up the cushions to see what was underneath. 

John took a seat, an open seam on the bottom pushing out a wad of stuffing with the force. He patted the one next to him as if Tiffany already hadn’t thought of sitting there.

Tiffany caught sight of her reflection in the plexiglass. The makeup made her face look longer, and the fake half-moon glasses dangling from the faux-gold chain around her neck almost added a flair of sophistication. It was like looking at a sibling she never knew. One with her father’s nose, her mother’s eyes, and a stranger’s flat-ironed hair. 

She held her breath as the prison entrance opened on the other side of the center with a metal squeal as Mary Dahl was guided in. Tiffany peeked at the dossiers she’d brought along from the BatCave as if it would help her nerves settle. The female guard who had removed Mary’s handcuffs added what looked like the world’s flattest pillow to the seat in an attempt to give her a boost.

She let herself breathe out as Mary sat across from her, a mere three-foot-eleven. Her blonde twin ponytails were droopy and half-heartedly held up by two different colored rubber bands. The normally baby blue eyes looked gray and dull, with dark circles underneath. Her nails looked stubby and worn as if she’d bitten them, and the orange jumpsuit sagged so much it made her look even smaller.

Mary waited until the guard left to pick up the phone on her side. The phone was heavy and worn with hundreds of hands before Tiffany’s, reminding her of her of the ancient payphone stuck out in the hall of her grandma’s old apartment. “Hello,” Mary greeted, almost making Tiffany jump in her seat. She had a surprisingly normal 30-year-old-woman’s voice. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Uhm, we haven’t,” Tiffany mangled, darting her gaze back at John’s handwriting atop the folder in her lap. “We’re from Moore & Morrison , LLP; I’m Nancy Bolton .” Mary cast a sideways glance at John. “And this is my senior colleague, Joe White .”

Mary gave a little nod, but said nothing.

“We had some questions about your case.” Tiffany flopped open the thick manila folder again, tilting her head to keep the receiver to her shoulder and being mindful not to let Mary see the load of blank paper underneath the important pieces on top. She blinked down and realized she had forgotten she was supposed to use readers. “Certain, um, evidence was recently brought to light.” 

Some life came back into Mary’s round face. “Uh-huh.”

Just as Tiffany adjusted the fake glasses on her nose, the prison door squealed open a second time.

Waylon Jones was a behemoth at what was probably seven and a half feet tall and full of muscle, but unlike Bane, he carried a lightbulb-shaped silhouette. Green scale tattoos ran from the top of his head to the backs of his knuckles, barely leaving any skin below the bumpy browline untouched. Small bulbous implants were raised in rows like a mohawk in place of hair.

Tiffany had seen his picture, but to call him ‘intimidating’ in person was seriously undercutting it.

Mary turned to look, too, and her face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Crocy!” she squealed in delight.

Waylon’s shaved eyebrows rose. It kind of looked like he said her name, but Tiffany couldn’t hear.

Mary practically bounced in her seat as the guard led him next to hers. Instead of taking his handcuffs off, the guard went to the opposite corner to cross his arms and keep his eyes trained on Waylon’s back.

“How are they treating you on the other side?” Waylon asked, his voice rough and raspy. Tiffany could see that his teeth had all been filed down into points.

“I’m alright,” she answered, still talking in a higher register than before, “My cell-pal Mariam looks after me pretty good. What about you?”

Waylon shrugged and picked up the receiver for John’s side. “I’ve been better. What’s this about?”

“I was wondering the same thing! Pulling us out together after five years…” Mary shot Tiffany a look. “The old crowd stopped visiting after the first six months. Our lawyers after the first year.”

John positioned himself to still lean towards her somewhat while talking into his own phone. “As my junior was trying to explain earlier, there’s new evidence in your case,” he explained into the receiver, adjusting his fake glasses as he crossed his legs. “And we’re here on behalf of a…third party who brought it to our attention.”

Mary didn’t seem to have heard that as well.

Tiffany thought back to all the detective shows her mom would watch on summer afternoons during her childhood. Unlike in books, they usually went through the crime step by step before solving it in the climax. It felt like a good way to jog her memory.

“Yeah, as I had said earlier, your case has new evidence.” Tiffany pretended to skim over the paper in her lap. “According to your statement, you hit Mr. Uslan with a whisky decanter?”

“That’s right,” Mary answered in her normal voice. 

“You claimed self-defense, but they still charged you with murder-two.” She took off the glasses. “Can you walk me through what happened?”

Mary stared at her. “Isn’t it all in there?”

It was. Attempted sexual assault, self-defense blow to the head, running for help and solace, covered up the murder the best way they knew how to preserve what they could of their lives…

She could hear John next to her:  “Such a strange thing, not pleading temporary insanity for you… It’s not like there aren’t other cannibalism cases in Arkham. I’d have thought your line about ‘not wanting to waste meat’ would’ve been a cincher. I guess the media’s shock-and-awe story really pulled one over on you, huh?” 

(Ah. Treating him like a victim.)

“I know what the police wrote happened,” Tiffany said, “I know what the journalists scraped together. And I know what you told the court, Mary,” she added softly, “But you also tried to take the blame for everything at first, even after Mr. Jones tried to do the same for you. I need to know exactly what happened so this new evidence makes more sense.”

Those blue doll-like eyes welled with something like hope. “Do you think,” she mumbled into the receiver, “I might…be innocent? I could get out?”

She felt bad getting her hopes up like this when there was an ultra-slim chance she could even do anything. Maybe if she got a confession out of the real perpetrator, it would mean something, but… “It’s…possible,” she answered, “Our, er, client has, uh… What you’d call a ‘reputable stance’ with the justice system.”

Mary’s eyebrows rose, and she darted her eyes over to Waylon and the guard in the corner, then at the inmates on the other side of the room. “Are you talking about The Batman?” she whispered, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

She sure as hell wasn’t going to answer that. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

Mary searched her face, but couldn’t seem to get anything from Tiffany’s expression. “Okay,” she pouted, her ponytails almost seeming to droop, “I get it. Client confidentiality and all that. I mean, I’d be surprised if it was; he probably would’ve busted us up too, back then… Even worse than the cops. I hear all kinds of stuff about him around here.”

She didn’t really want to let Batman’s name be dragged like that. He could be rough, but she’d never seen him do anything unnecessary. “I don’t think he’s so bad. From what I hear, anyway,” she interjected as casually as possible. “At least with his track record, I think he would’ve solved your case much faster. You might not have even been here for this long. Gotten assault and battery, maybe conspiracy.”

Mary looked much more interested. “This evidence of yours… Why would my little case have something new after all these years, anyway?”

In this case, honesty is the best policy, as her mother always said. “A print that came up in your case’s evidence log showed up elsewhere recently.”

Her little blonde eyebrows rose curiously, then settled into a furrow as she stared at the table between them. Her gaze shifted to Waylon. “Will it help Croc, too?” she asked hopefully.

She doubted that. But John had evidently heard that, or else could read her lips - he nudged her calf, and when she glanced over at him, he was spelling out ‘say yes’ with his fingers under the tabletop as Waylon said something about police brutality. 

“It could reduce Mr. Jones’ sentence.”

Mary smiled a fraction and jiggled like she kicked her legs in her seat. “That was his name in the circus, y’know - ‘Killer Croc’. Some southern guy called me ‘Babydoll’ once and everyone found it so funny they wouldn’t stop imitating him for weeks until it just stuck. Though,” she leaned back, smiling over at her companion, “you’re the only one who can call me that now, huh, Crocy?”

Waylon looked over at her mid-sentence, sighing with the type of mild annoyance that didn’t seem very heartfelt. “...you can’t just say ‘Croc’, can ya?”

Mary gave something of a giggle. “Cause I know you won’t stop me.”

“Only ‘cause if you were anyone else, I’d crush ya,” he rasped, making a squishing motion with his hands like he was crushing an oversized cola can, “like this, and throw ya into the bin where you belong.”

Mary beamed and giggled. It must have been some inside joke. (Though John was hiding a smile behind his hand, too.)

Tiffany really wanted to get to the point. “Um, Mary…”

“Oh, sorry - where was I? The circus! So you know I was hired on to be ‘the’ audience member. Any dangerous act - fire, electric eels, knife throwing - I was the pick a lot of the time. Crocy started before me,” she explained, her voice only going higher on the silly nickname. “Part freak show, part strong-man. He used to wrestle crocodiles in a pit.”

“Until those animal welfare assholes got involved,” Waylon grumbled distantly.

“Right. But we had our own trailers. Not much, but homey.”

“Waylon,” John interjected politely, “could you move the receiver between you two? I’d like to hear her side.”

Waylon gave a grunt that sounded a bit like an alligator’s, mouthing something like ‘fine’, his lip curling to show off the teeth filed down into points. But he moved the phone between the booths anyway.

Mary continued. “So I finish my volunteer act with the magician’s drowning trick, and I have to slink out with the audience members in case someone gets wise - and this guy follows me. At first I think it’s just some townie who’s trying to see if I’m my ‘real’ age, so I throw him off by visiting the stalls, going into the funhouse, stuff like that. But…” Her face fell. “He bumped into me on purpose. Picked up my popcorn and asked if my parents worked here. Said he liked my act and wanted to use it. I didn’t really know what to say.”

Tiffany supposed she wouldn’t, either. “Did you invite him to your trailer?”

“No,” Mary said sternly, “I ran away. I thought I lost him, but he followed me to my trailer and just strolled in like he owned the place, talking up some show he was making and how he could use a child actress who could ‘turn off the waterworks’. Said I could have a ‘great future in television’ if I played my cards right…”

Her face scrunched up into a dark, world-weary expression, and her voice had gotten quieter. “I told him what I was. Then I told him to fuck off. And then he tried to…you know.”

She understood completely. “I know. It’s okay.”

John made some gesture, and Waylon’s phone was pressed to Mary’s ear. “Had he been drinking?” he asked, seeming somewhat sympathetic.

“He’d helped himself to my whiskey.” Her voice was growing frail. “It was on my dressing table. He wasn’t the first to try it on with me… Just the first to…”

Waylon yanked the phone away from her. “You don’t have the right to ask that,” he growled, just audible over Tiffany’s line.

“Sure I do,” John said not very smoothly, “Any court-jockey fresh from the bar is going to ask her that. It doesn’t mean I think she lead him on or something,” he added with a barely disguised frown.

Mary tugged on the retractable cord, and Waylon reluctantly put it back in the middle. “He tried to pin me to the table. I wasn’t thinking about it,” she said softly, “I just grabbed what was closest and swung.”

She was silent for a moment. Tiffany felt it best not to press onto the next point.

“When I realized… I dropped the bottle and ran. I only got six trailers down when Waylon saw me.”

“I checked it out,” Waylon grunted. “He was dead alright. Bleeding right into the floor.”

“Did you see anyone else around the trailer park?” Tiffany asked as gently as possible.

Mary sighed. “I don’t think so…”

John bounced his crossed leg. “How about you, Waylon? Anybody you didn’t recognize? Or even anyone you did?”

Waylon grunted in annoyance, lip curling to show teeth, and leaned back to look at the ceiling. “It was five years ago, how am I supposed to remember?”

“Because you lived in a tight-knit community, and you know everyone – at least enough to recognize the crew and the regulars – and your friend’s just come to you in a panic,” John suggested, having leaned back and now tapping his fingers in a rhythm on the phone. “They killed a guy, and now all you can think about is making sure no one else saw it. So you race across the trailer park, panic thumping in your chest, eyes darting around each and every corner…”

Tiffany redirected her attention to Mary as Waylon screwed up his face in genuine thought. “What about before you entered your trailer that evening?” she tried. “You must’ve been looking out for that creep following you, right?”

Mary tucked her fist into her cheek. “I don’t know… I saw Stu, he runs the shooting gallery…”

Waylon sighed. “I can’t remember.”

John motioned for Tiffany to come closer. “Quick side-bar with my junior, won’t be a moment!”

Tiffany stood and followed his example of turning his back to the glass. “What? You heard them, neither of them remember.”

“Of course they don’t, we haven’t shown them the suspects yet,” John whispered, “Did you print those? I don’t have them in my little case.”

“No, I thought you said you would!”

John looked away with a low hiss as if he’d hurt himself somehow. “Oh boy. Failed on that bit of communication… But that’s okay! We can use my phone.” Tiffany bit her tongue to stop herself from asking just who had failed here. It would be dumb to argue in front of their ‘clients’. “They might get desperate and try to corroborate on the last one, so mix up the order when I pass it to you, okay?”

“Desperate?”

“They’re in prison,” he stressed with a raised eyebrow, “Around the clock monitoring, crappy living conditions, violent tension constantly boiling under everyone’s skin – and unlike Arkham, they don’t get to talk it all out with a licensed therapist. If you stayed here for several years and someone said there was a tiiiiiny chance you could leave, would you want to just let it go?”

…probably not. She didn’t want to imagine having to stay here in the visiting room much longer, let alone live there. “It certainly doesn’t seem to be doing them any good.”

“Exactly! Ok, round two,” he hushed with a smile and a little thumb’s up. “Alright, Waylon,” he said normally, pushing up the fake glasses as he resumed his seat. “I’m going to show you some pictures, and you tell me if anyone looks familiar.”

“Nope.” Swipe. “Hah, what a mug. He could be in my pit.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’...”

Swipe. “Hm… Dunno.”

Tiffany took the phone from him, careful not to touch anything to trigger it returning to home. (She didn’t care to see an almost naked Bruce like last time.) She decided to try the last picture first.

Mary’s eyes widened gradually until Tiffany was sure they would pop out of her face. “I’ve seen him before!”

But where? “In the trailer park?”

“He was in the audience,” she said with a growing excitement. She reached over and gently shook Waylon’s arm. “He sat right behind me!”

In a flash, the all-but-forgotten guard in the corner sprung into action and pushed them apart. His call of “No touching!” fell on deaf ears.

“The spotlights hit back there!” she said excitedly, her pitch rising. “I remember because he looked so bored!”

Tiffany looked back at the picture of Garfield Lynns. “Mary,” Tiffany thought aloud, “when you left the trailer, you didn’t check for a pulse, right? How did you know Ben Uslan was dead?”

Her excitement settled somewhat, but she still had the shining hope in her eyes. “He was still. Real still.”

“And he was bleeding? Was it pooling underneath him?”

“Um. I…” she trailed off, cradling her chin in the space between her thumb and index finger. “I don’t remember.”

Waylon snorted. “It’s like I said, lady, you could’ve gone swimming in it.”

“And Mary - you only struck once?” 

Mary nodded. 

So a calculated second strike from Garfield. Talk about tough glass… Or a lucky hit.

“Well, Nancy,” John smiled knowingly over at her, “looks like we’re going to have to make a call.”

Mary sat up and leaned towards the glass like they were friends having a private conversation at a restaurant. “Can you tell me - what’ll happen now?”

“Well, uh…” Tiffany fumbled for something. She couldn’t leave her with nothing - not when she looked like such a wreck, and she was innocent of murder - but giving her false hope felt wrong. “We’ll have to talk to our client…”

“But,” John added on his end, “we should be able to pass everything along through the system. The wheels of justice spin slow, as the saying goes! But you’ll probably get a hearing.”

He was making promises he couldn’t keep. She almost wanted to kick him. No board or judge would look at them and their rap sheet and just send them on their way!

“They do look at all records,” Tiffany stressed, closing the prop file. “They’re not exactly lenient, in our experience.”

John chuckled a little too loudly. “Ain’t that the truth! But I’m sure you kids will behave.” He glanced at his cell phone in mock-surprise. “Ooh, would you look at the time! Gotta run - people to see, cases to settle!”

Waylon didn’t bother with formalities, but Mary seemed to want to say something, so Tiffany waited.

“Thanks for seeing me about all this,” Mary said in her normal voice. “Things have never been easy for me. Especially here… But this…well, makes me think that something might turn around for once.”

Tiffany swallowed the guilt that came with Mary’s grateful smile. “You’re welcome.”

“Come on, Nance, we don’t want to be late,” John excused for her, trying to guide her away by the shoulder. The little click that came with hanging up the two-way handset felt strangely heavy. The feeling sat with her as she glanced behind her to see Mary being re-cuffed to be lead back to her cell.

John was practically vibrating with excitement, shaking her still-held shoulder the moment the visiting room door was closed. “We did it!” he squealed, pumping his fist, “We’re gonna nail this guy!”

How was he so excited? How did he deal with just lying to Mary’s face about their chances? Was it really all those years in Arkham…? Was it just experience?

John’s wide grin was not quite a face-splitter. “And you! You did great!” He slowed their stride a half step back from the guard in charge of walking them back and ducked his head down to her ear. “Bats is gonna be so proud of us,” he whispered.

Mary’s hopeful smile gnawed at her. It didn’t seem like anything to be proud of.

His arm slipped off of her. “Come on, kiddo, you just solved a five-year-old murder! Aren’t you excited?”

There wasn’t any point in lying about it, and she seriously doubted he would let the subject go. “Not really.”

“Hey, uh, is there someplace my partner and I can talk alone?” John asked the guard escorting them to the elevator.

“Yeeeah,” the guard grunted, “Outside.”

“Well, can you just give us a minute alone?”

The guard held up his card for the RFID reader by the elevator doors. “You got thirty seconds after the ‘ding’. That’s enough for you.”

John waited until the doors were closing to bite back:  “I bet your wife says the same thing!” The elevator gave a tinny ding as it began to descend. “Jerk. Okay, what’s wrong?”

“I just spent ten minutes telling a prisoner they could get out of there,” she answered, hearing the bite in her own voice, “when they don’t even have a chance.”

“Sure they do,” John puzzled.

“It doesn’t matter how much evidence we have, John, we can’t submit anything and magically get them off the hook! We’re not real lawyers!”

John hit the emergency stop button with a ballpoint pen, causing the elevator to jolt and stop with a hefty clunk. “You’ve been at this longer than I have,” he said coolly, staring down at her, “Do you actually want Mary to get free?”

She knew he wasn’t going to start the elevator back up until she answered. If it even could start back up. Either way, Tiffany was stuck.

Mary was technically innocent. And incredibly pitiable. A woman in a perpetually-seven-year-old body would have an extremely limited choice of career even without the criminal record. It was unlikely that anyone even vaguely familiar with those news broadcasts covering her case would forget them, rescinded charges or not.

Unlike her. Tiffany’s very real charges had been swept under the rug, all because Batman thought her worthy of a second chance. No one knew she’d killed the Riddler outside of their little group. No one at all knew how long she’d planned it for. No one knew how she’d gotten Barbara to give a tour of her ambulance for the sole purpose of taking some of the powerful drugs they stored for the occasional Arkham escapee, how much she’d researched them to find the most lethal combination, how she’d looked at the tranquilizer gun the dark web dealer had brought to her no-questions-asked and told herself that what she was doing was right.

She could’ve so easily been put into Mary’s situation, and she would’ve gone to as much effort to cover it up.

“Yeah,” Tiffany lamented, “I guess I do. But that’s not the point.”

John finally loosened back up and put away the pen he’d been clicking away at. “Then what is? Come on, Tiffy, you’re one of the four most intelligent people in the city,” he said as if he were scolding a kitten, “Life dealt her a bad hand, just like it did me. And you would’ve had it, too, if Batman weren’t around… But since he is, and we’re here for him now, I’m sure we’ll figure something out. Besides, since when has Batman ever slept on a weird murder case?”

Hah. “Never since I’ve known him.”

Tiffany’s balance shook with the elevator as the floor rattled under her feet with a dull thudding sort of boom. She steadied herself against the metal railing, bracing for a snapping sound or sudden drop, but nothing more happened than the lights blinking.

“I hope that wasn’t what it sounded like,” John grumbled from the corner he’d half-fallen into.

The elevator hadn’t moved, but the service light had turned red. They were stuck. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“...you want to go look?”

“Well we can’t just wait around here,” Tiffany stressed, putting her hands on her hips the same way her mom did when she wanted to take charge. “Even if it wasn’t an explosion, they’re bound to find out who we really are if we stay in here.”

“Good point,” John muttered. “I’d hate to think of what sentence I’d get…”

The access panel was sitting pretty in the leftmost corner, but Tiffany was too short to reach it and there was no bar to climb on. “You think you can get me up there?”

John eyed the panel. “Yeah. You want to be lifted up, or sit on my shoulders?”

Either way sounded embarrassing. “Shoulders.”

“Aha hee hee! What, you think I’ll drop you?” he teased, squatting down and pointing uselessly to his back, “I’ve carried Batman one-handed! Dislocated my shoulder, sure,” he continued as she took her position and tried to focus on the latch, “but even if I hadn’t done it so many times before, it was worth it!”

Tiffany’s head scraped the ceiling as she pushed and jiggled the stubborn latch. It didn’t appear to be used often. If ever. She wished she had some of that spray-on oil from her bike’s trunk.

“You know, we could tower over Bruce like this. Give him a good smack-down... Or just dunk on him, ha ha!”

Now there’s a thought. She slammed her palms into the corners of the door, finally popping it open with a metal squeal. “We smacked down a door, in any case.”

She climbed up onto the dusty metal roof, John holding her legs steady and only giving an oof when her kitten heel dug into his shoulder. It was dark up there, but she could see the door for the second floor and the maintenance button panel by the door. All they had to do was climb some. And pray a trigger-happy guard wasn’t on the other side.

“So, are you going to help me up, or…?”

“Naaah. I think I’ll leave you down there, get some quiet time,” she joked, squatting on the super-dusty roof. At least these aren’t my clothes, she thought. 

“Veeery funny, missy.” John propped one foot up on the slick metal wall as he grabbed her outstretched forearms, only looking mildly annoyed. “Leave the jokes to the professionals.”

She pulled, muscle straining as her shoulders and torso tried to bear the weight. She could lift quite a bit of weight for someone who was merely a computer-geek-who-occasionally-went-to-a-gym sixteen months ago, but holy shit, for such a thin guy, he sure felt heavy.

Tiffany barely managed to get him up, partially helped by John scrambling to get one of his legs through the hole. John’s landing immediately stirred up a swirl of dust.

It was easy to climb up the pole towards the door; the bolts holding them in place acted as decent footholds. 

“Ugh, surrounded by dust, rat droppings, and archaic walls,” he said between coughs as he followed her up on the opposing side, “Just like the old homestead.”

“Yeah, but at least the electronics aren’t as old,” Tiffany offered, patting the access panel door. “As long as the RFID scanner is hardwired in, I can connect to it and trick it into opening the door for us.” She pulled out her spool-keychain of cable connectors, gripping the old pole on the wall with one hand. “It’s why I never leave without my master key.”

John gave an appreciative ‘ooh’. “Neat! But, uh, wouldn’t it be easier to just try and pry the door open?”

Tiffany sadly pocketed her key cable. “...yeah, I guess.”

Thankfully she could reach her half without too much of a strain on her shoulder. John seemed to have no trouble.

“On three,” she said. “One, two…pull!”

The elevator doors squealed in protest for the first two inches, then slid open with a little thunk so fast that Tiffany almost slipped.

They were back on the third floor. The rude guard was nowhere to be seen.

“Everyone must have started running towards the noise,” Tiffany noted aloud amongst the eerie quiet, checking the walls for security cameras.

“At least we know they can’t take the elevator.”

Tiffany ducked her head as they left the empty shaft, trying to keep as much of her face away from the camera positioned above the elevator. “This prison has what, five stories?”

John turned his face towards the inner wall like he knew just what he was looking for. “Yeah, and according to Bats’ notes from this morning, it’s got a weird layout - the cell blocks are five stories high! And it’s split so the women’s block was put on the opposite side. Thankfully.”

“Wait, so the cells start downstairs?” Tiffany stopped. “That’s probably where the explosion came from!”

John gave a short laugh. “I don’t know about you, bird-girl, but I heard it from above. I’d bet a cell wall got blown out. And while everyone’s trying to patch up the hole and chase whoever left,” he explained, “it leaves the front door a bit more accessible.”

“That’s stupid, they’d still have to go through the guards!”

“Unless…” John paused, stopping in the middle of the hall to look up like he could see through the ceiling. “I think the medical center is on the fourth floor.”

“What does that have to…”

It hit Tiffany, suddenly, that the majority of focus would shift to wherever the explosion took place. It wasn’t about blasting open a wall to escape. 

“It’s a distraction.”

“Bingo! Nothing gets attention like a medical emergency!”

Tiffany whipped out her phone and launched the network scanner. As she had guessed, the network the nearby camera was on was under heavy security. It would take more time to chip at it directly than to crack into one of the on-network cell phones and piggy back on it. She turned on her sniffer application. “Security was on the second floor, right?” she asked, dashing towards the corner. Peeking around and seeing no one, she made a bee-line for the stairs and just turned the handle to open it a crack. 

Heavy footsteps and shouts echoed down with a blaring fire alarm. No one was rushing up towards them, but it sounded like people were running downstairs as well.

“Come on,” she whispered, slipping through. They wouldn’t guard the stairs, she thought, No one would be trying to go up instead of out. It should be safe.

She peeked over the railing - one last guard, struggling to tug on a riot gear vest, was following a line of people down. They were smart enough to try and cover their bases with the cell door now, at least.

John, who had the uncanny ability to walk as quietly as Bruce, looked oddly nervous as they made their way down. 

Tiffany stopped at the second-floor door. It was way too risky to go in, considering the likelihood of more guards, but the thick metal was stopping her signal.

“What are you doing?!” John hissed as she cracked open the door.

“I need to get access to the feed,” she answered in the quietest voice she could muster. “Otherwise we could walk right into them down there. And we can see who’s trying to break out.”

“We can find that part out on the news,” John muttered, unnecessarily holding onto a fistful of her jacket like she was going to try and make a break for it.

The sniffer program found a headway - someone’s cell phone was broadcasting bluetooth. Tiffany connected to it, running her script to bypass authorization and keep her own identifying addresses scrambled. Her packet sniffer hit gold:  pre-saved network ID and key in the settings, ready and waiting for her to take.

Now all she had to do was login to the network and fish around for a camera’s connection. Easy enough to do in her sandbox. She closed the door and started it up; John still looked like he was listening for the slightest reason to run.

“Maybe we shouldn’t stay here,” John said in a hush.

“I doubt they’ll try and come up,” she whispered back, “And look, I got it!” 

Once she had one camera’s IP, it was easy to guess the rest. They were all in sequential order, and easy to flick through the visual feeds when you knew how - and Tiffany had long since perfected this. 

The fourth floor cameras showed a troupe of security personnel, guns at the ready, flowing through the floor in an effort to stop anyone from escaping. A frightened doctor and a couple of nurses could be seen planted against a wall like prisoners. Smoke was ebbing into view from the blast, which seemed to have taken out nothing more than one of the doors. A man pried open one of the elevators, flocked by more armed guards.

The first floor showed nothing at first. A quiet corner. An empty stair entry. A smeared streak of black. Nothing but three guards around B-block. Another smear of black, this time actively being sprayed on the screen.

And then chaos. Around the corner from what she presumed was another cell block was an all-out fight between several guards and prisoners, with guards’ riot shields being battered by what could’ve been a group of line-backers on a football field. Prisoners were snatching at what she could only hope were rubber-bullet guns.

Tiffany got a glimpse of the letter ‘C’ by the numbers on one of the jumpsuits. She didn’t recognize any of the faces.

Still. Two cameras being manually blacked out. That wasn’t good.

“Time to go,” John pressed, tugging her arm along.

“John!” She nearly tripped down the steps with him. “Let go! I can run!”

“Well then hurry the hell up!”

Noise hit them like a ton of bricks as soon as they entered the first floor hallway. Shouts. Gunfire. Thuds like people hitting the wall or floor.

John took the lead, uncharacteristically serious looking like he was channeling Bruce. (Or, knowing him, he was deliberately trying for Batman.) He flattened himself against a wall as Tiffany swiped between cameras trying to find themselves. “See anything?”

A guard with a completely vacant looking face was spraying something up at the camera lens to block it off. Tiffany very quickly swiped to the next one, showing the back of him just out of screen. A thin orange pant leg could be seen next to him. “These must be on the other side,” she noted aloud. “Someone is breaking out of the women’s prison!”

“Oh, great - but I meant near us!”

“I’m getting there!” She swiped again and again. “Whoever they are, they’re being helped by a guard.”

Finally, she saw the back of her own wig in view. One more swipe. 

She tugged him back just as a guard smacked down on the floor, a gunshot ricocheting off the walls and ringing in her ears. It had hit them in the body armor vest, stunning them - and the very real hole left behind told Tiffany everything she needed to know about the situation.

It was her turn to pull John along, the after-burn image of the prisoner aiming the rifle sticking in her mind’s eye. She ran as fast as she could while several more shots and a smarmy ‘How do you like me NOW?’ bellowed behind them.

John let out a laugh, which he very quickly stifled. “Bad time for theatrics!” he said among what she really hoped were nervous giggles.

Tiffany stopped to peek around the corner - the A-Block door was shut tight, with the red light above the lock remaining steady and no guard placed outside.

We should be circling back around to the ‘bridge’ separating the two halves of the prison, she thought as she tugged John along into the empty hall.

The squeal of old metal hinges pierced the air, causing them both to halt in their tracks. Someone had taken the other set of stairs down.

Before she could blink John had grabbed her by the back of her collar and yanked her through the nearby bathroom door. The automatic light flickered on before John could slap his hand over the automatic sensor.

Tiffany could hear her heart pounding like a drum as the light buzzed and went dark. It felt too much like a movie where the only candle on set was blown out. Only the setting was more like one of the lockdown drills she’d gone through in school:  lights out, take cover, keep quiet. 

But her mind drifted to the roster of criminals in Batman’s rogue gallery. Bruce had always drilled it into her head to be prepared for anything. So she sank to the floor, pressed her ear to the wall, and very slowly opened the door a crack.

 “Are you fucking kidding? We came all this way! This is our chance to really leave this piss-hole!”

Waylon. Tiffany froze. The glimpse she had showed he had broken the handcuffs’ chains from earlier and had stolen a rifle. Blood was lightly spattered on his rolled up sleeves.

“I can’t,” Mary’s voice answered slowly, not at all in her girlish pitch from when she talked to him before. “Then they’ll never let me out.”

Tiffany dared to widen the gap a little more, spotting Mary standing without so much as a bruise.

“Waylon,” she emphasized almost softly, “we finally have a real chance. One where we don’t have to think about looking over our shoulders or walking on eggshells every day. Don’t you want that?”

There was a moment of silence, peppered among distant ricocheting gunfire. Then a great sigh. “Maybe.” A short pause. “I really fucked things up, huh?”

“Just a bit. But it’s okay. I’ll just go back and pretend I was hiding.” Her voice rose into that childish pitch that matched her face: “I was soooo scared! I almost got trampled on! Waaaah!”

He laughed, deep and guttural like his nickname’s sake. “I almost forgot how good you were at that.” 

Mary giggled. Tiffany wished she could see better. 

“You should go,” he added. “I’ll go back up before someone sees.”

A loud shot and a thump came from further down the hall, accompanied by footsteps. “Ah, and there he is - just the man I was looking for! On your way out, eh, Waylon? Good thing I caught ya.”

Tiffany didn’t recognize the man’s voice, but Waylon said it clearly enough:  “What do you want, Oz?”

“It’s not about what I want,” Oswald “The Penguin” Cobblepot said smoothly in his weird British accent, “it’s about what we all want. Liberation. And we can’t get there without a little help from the community, can we?”

Tiffany heard more muffled gunshots from somewhere.

“And I’m thinkin’ - if you’re already on the way out, why don’t we all continue this little break out together? I could use a guy like you!”

“...no thanks,” Waylon answered gruffly, “I’m not really serious about breakin’ out.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Oswald said in annoyance. “You’re literally armed to the teeth. Are you really just havin’ a… Oh,” he suddenly punctuated a know-it-all way, “I get it. You got that visitor earlier. You ‘n’ your little partner in crime think you can walk. Who’d you get, Matlock?”

Tiffany could see that Mary moved to stand in front of Waylon.

“Just get out of here, Oz,” the tiny woman said casually, “We’re not about to squeal on you or the goon squad, so what difference does it make?”

“All the difference, sweet-’eart, when you’re fightin’ an overgrown rodent. Though, come to think of it… You could be quite an asset, yourself,” Oswald said contemplatively. “Yeah. Yeah, we could use you.”

“I’m flattered,” Mary said coolly, “but no thanks.”

Oswald had moved; Tiffany could just see his legs in view. “Oh, that’s cute. You think I’m askin’.”

Tiffany could only see a flurry of movement as several people scrambled into a close-quarter fight. Despite the fact that Waylon easily threw two of whom she assumed were the ‘goon squad’ to the floor, he still wound up freezing in place at Mary’s shriek.

“Oh-kay, here’s the deal, Croc, ol’ boy!” Oswald said, completely out of view, “You come along nicely and I won’t give the wall a new coat of paint with her brains. Sound good?”

Tiffany acted without another thought. The door pulled open several inches. 

“Don’t be stupid!” John hissed, slamming it shut with his foot. He kept it planted there.

“What am I supposed to do, let her get killed?”

“We’re not prepared for this, Tiffany!” he stressed furiously, “We’re outnumbered, out-armed, and not even supposed to be here! You’re a lawyer right now, remember?”

The truth wasn’t drowning out the instinct thrumming in her legs. “Bruce would go!”

“Just because he’s got a hero complex a mile wide- ugh, do you have any idea what he’d do if I let you get hurt?! He’d never forgive me!” 

As her eyes readjusted, she could tell he was no longer looking at her. Despite his fury a moment ago, it didn’t really match the crushed tone of his voice: “And I’d never forgive myself.”

Tiffany never felt more trapped. “What…are we supposed to do, then?”

John moved, the heels of his shoes clicking past her on the tile. “Wait.”

She didn’t want to. She was practically shaking with the urge to move. 

She felt like a child. She hated this whole shebang, from the pointless violence outside the bathroom door to her stupid trembling limbs in her ugly-ass suit. It didn’t help that John was running the faucet for some reason. Rush, rush, rush, like the adrenaline and guilt pumping through her veins.

It hit Tiffany that surely someone may hear the water, but there was no burst through the door. Outside of her pounding heart it was fairly quiet. 

The door handle felt gross as she slowly pulled it open to peek out. 

She saw drops of blood on the floor, likely from where Waylon had hit Penguin’s men. One body, not moving, but the lack of utter stillness that came with death said he was just unconscious. And bleeding a little.

The unmistakable bang of a gunshot reverberated from down the hall. 

No more waiting - she darted up and out, not caring if John followed, and practically skidded to a halt on sight of the front hallway.

A guard lay over the metal detector. The bullet had penetrated through the neck where the swat armor wasn’t quite high enough to cover. Blood had pooled under him. Tiffany now knew what Waylon had meant when he said she could’ve gone swimming in it.

What was worse was that another was lying in the doorway, slumped body wedged between the metal baseboard and frame, blood actively leaking from the glaring hole in his temple. The whole place stank of copper and black powder.

There came the strange sound of splashing water from behind her - John had followed and dumped a large bucket of something all over the hallway floor, carelessly dropping the bucket before darting back up to her.

“Don’t just run off like that!” John chastised, tucking his handkerchief back in his pocket like it mattered, “You really - oof, talk about a pain in the neck.”

Tiffany was about to tell him to shut up when rapid footsteps echoed up from the opposite side. She dragged him down to the floor by his sleeve as she ducked behind the guard’s stall, trying not to breathe in. 

It was a big woman with brown, straggly hair. She didn’t recognize her, but it was hard to miss the sock-and-buskin tattoo on her neck. Or the blood on her front.

The guard’s bloodstained belt was still loaded with gear. 

Almost on reflex, Tiffany whipped out the nightstick and flung it at the escapee’s head.

Time seemed to slow down before it made contact with a whap. The nameless False Face fell to the ground and made no move to get up.

“Woah! That’s some throwing arm you got there, Tiff’!” John praised with an unnervingly innocent smile for a man kneeling in a pool of blood. “And here I was, thinking you were reaching for the holster.”

“What?! I wasn’t about to shoot her! She wasn’t even armed!”

John’s head tilted like a curious dog. “You mean you didn’t see the piece she was carrying? Left hip pocket, couldn’t miss it.”

Tiffany decided to ignore that. “Ok, whatever! There’s been enough death already!”

She made for the door, looking over the body stuck there. Sure enough, the guard was the same one who had been blacking out the camera lenses. The handgun, pulled from his service belt, was clutched in his fingers. As if he killed himself.

Another shot echoed from somewhere far down the hall. It wasn’t the time or place to theorize.

“John?”

John stepped away from the unconscious woman he was kneeling over, dropping the riot baton and shoving the now-bloody pocket square back into the front of his jacket. “Right, sorry!” With the officer’s blood soaked into the knees of his pants he looked like he’d committed murder. She was very glad he wasn’t his usual pale self; she’d like not to think about Ace Chemicals right now. 

Tiffany had only leaned down to drag the body away from the door when he grabbed her elbow. “Tiffany,” he hissed, “fingerprints!”

Oh. She hadn’t realized until she looked, but her hands had gotten some of the other guard’s blood on them. He was right; if she touched the body, she’d leave a trace of herself.

“Keep the door open, then,” she instructed. “I don’t want the automatic locks to suddenly kick in.”

Tiffany didn’t have a pocket square. Instead the ugly yellow plaid jacket finally came in handy - she palmed the lining between the shoulders and armpits, hoping one of Jackie’s hairs had not somehow stuck in the weaves to transfer to the dead man’s legs as she gently pulled him out of the doorframe.

“Sorry,” she whispered to the poor man as she dropped his legs. She tried not to look at the bloody lump on the glass or the blood spattered on the cheap rubber mat as stepped around the crime scene.

The door shut behind them with a screech of hinges and the heavy thunk of a lock sliding into place.

The sounds of traffic in the distance was so normal. No screeching tires, no gunshots, no breaking glass - and the parking lot was quiet. Horribly, horribly quiet.

“You did good, kiddo,” John told her with a rough clap on the shoulder. “Seriously, you should’ve signed up for the Knights.”

Tiffany didn’t know how much more she could take. “Can you be serious for one goddamn minute?!”

John gave a wild kind of laugh. The kind that didn’t exactly settle her nerves. “Of course! What do you think I was doing back there, girl-wonder?” he grinned. “If it was just me, I wouldn’t have cared!”

She wanted to push him. And hug him. She did neither. “We should be running now!” she half-shouted instead, bolting for her bike as John laughed behind her.

Her legs couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Not when her feet pounded the pavement, not when the blue letters of Mad Machine shined in the sun from the motorcycle’s rear panel, not when she slammed her helmet over the wig, and not when she felt the motor rev to life between her legs. 

John’s weight settled behind her. If it wasn��t for him, she knew she wouldn’t have gotten out of there. 

She also wouldn’t have been in there in the first place, but they would’ve had even less evidence to go on. At least now there was something.

It was gonna be one hell of a long day.

Author Notes:

This took…so much…outta me… I had the first half done for ages and kept stumbling over the second like the world’s biggest klutz. I originally planned on having J+T’s talk in the parking lot, interrupted with the explosion, with John wearing his Reponsible Adult™ shoes trying to talk Tiffany out of rushing in. And she had the gall to listen to him, too. I tell ya, I would’ve had this baby done AGES ago if I didn’t go “but :( the audience will miss the dramaaa :(“. I love y’all too much to deprive you.

But it turned out for the better! One of the things I really wanted to do here was show the potential for Agent!Tiffany to make her return. You can only see John if both he and Tiff’ are on your side, but you can get Joker regardless of Tiffany’s allegiance. Naturally, you don’t see anything if Tiffany is imprisoned. But yes, this DOES mean you can see Tiffany interact with the villainous Joker! I tell ya, this is the only story where half of me is ITCHING to see the flipside. After all, John is always a great manipulator, isn’t he? (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Those familiar with BtAS know of Babydoll and her whopping 2 episodes. Poor gal came in with one of the best and most critically praised episodes of the series and left with a boring redesign and a lucky bare mention or two in comics since. Croc, on the other hand, has been around for a real long time and is still used today, though his design and exact origins vary a lot. I decided to give both a good ol’ Telltale refresh, with Croc’s look very heavily influenced by a Ripley’s Believe It Or Not TV segment that has stuck in my head since childhood, and Babydoll’s stepping away from the Shirley Temple thing. I have little backstories for both of them, but that isn’t relevant to the story so it’d be mere bonus character bio material in the Batcomputer. Which, willpower pending, I might put at the very end of the story. But I’ll happily just tell anyone who asks.

Y’know the prison break plotpoint has been in the works for literal years? When S2 wrapped up in ‘18 and I sat in the den with my laptop that night, thinking over where the game could go next, I pictured an opening with black helicopters flying through the city as Jack Rider’s voice-over told us about multiple escapees from the latest breakout… But I knew that the story would lead us back to Arkham, which could involve fun new villains like Dr. Crane. My thoughts of all the previous games’ baddies running amok were put on the shelf after a while, as I felt the story would be difficult to steer there without making it the size of a coffee-table and I didn’t believe that I could pull it off. Not anymore, ‘cause here we are.

And man, I can’t write without making a joke. Comic fans undoubtedly did the looking-significantly-at-the-camera thing at John’s legal group since it’s a reference to Alan Moore and Grant Morrison (who have both created iconic Batman comics like The Killing Joke, A Serious House on Serious Earth, and Batman RIP). But John chose it because it sounds funny. And for my fellow mystery-readers, Tiffany’s fake name is a mishmash of 2 fictional teen sleuths, Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton. She def read ‘em growing up. I’m partial to the Nancy Drew PC games, myself; the puzzle solving has inspired bits in this series!

And…I know I say it a lot, but I really, REALLY love each and every one of you. The kudos and comments I received during my absence spammed my brain with enough heart emoticons that it would make a twelve year old fangirl tell me I need to chill out. And finding out I had some nice messages on here in my absence...gives me warm fuzzies. 🥺 I am giving you readers the warmest, softest, most loving hug through the monitor as I possibly can. Which I was going to do regardless of this week's...upset, but y'know. It's super, super tender now.

Thank you for enjoying my work, even after all this time. We’ll persevere together. ❤️

[idontliketomatoesleavemealone]

Myths are absurd man

[intheholler]

the appalachian murder ballad <3 one of the most interesting elements of americana and american folk, imo!

my wife recently gave me A Look when i had one playing in the car and she was like, "why do all of these old folk songs talk about killing people lmao" and i realized i wanted to Talk About It at length.

nerd shit under the cut, and it's long. y'all been warned

so, as y'all probably know, a lot of appalachian folk music grew its roots in scottish folk (and then was heavily influenced by Black folks once it arrived here, but that's a post for another time).

they existed, as most folk music does, to deliver a narrative--to pass on a story orally, especially in communities where literacy was not widespread. their whole purpose was to get the news out there about current events, and everyone loves a good murder mystery!

as an aside, i saw someone liken the murder ballad to a ye olde true crime podcast and tbh, yeah lol.

the "original" murder ballads started back across the pond as news stories printed on broadsheets and penned in such a way that it was easy to put to melody.

they were meant to be passed on and keep the people informed about the goings-on in town. i imagine that because these songs were left up to their original orators to get them going, this would be why we have sooo many variations of old folk songs.

naturally then, almost always, they were based on real events, either sung from an outside perspective, from the killer's perspective and in some cases, from the victim's. of course, like most things from days of yore, they reek of social dogshit. the particular flavor of dogshit of the OG murder ballad was misogyny.

so, the murder ballad came over when the english and scots-irish settlers did. in fact, a lot of the current murder ballads are still telling stories from centuries ago, and, as is the way of folk, getting rewritten and given new names and melodies and evolving into the modern recordings we hear today.

305 such scottish and english ballads were noted and collected into what is famously known as the Child Ballads collected by a professor named francis james child in the 19th century. they have been reshaped and covered and recorded a million and one times, as is the folk way.

while newer ones continued to largely fit the formula of retelling real events and murder trials (such as one of my favorite ones, little sadie, about a murderer getting chased through the carolinas to have justice handed down), they also evolved into sometimes fictional, (often unfortunately misogynistic) cautionary tales.

perhaps the most famous examples of these are omie wise and pretty polly where the woman's death almost feels justified as if it's her fault (big shocker).

but i digress. in this way, the evolution of the murder ballad came to serve a similar purpose as the spooky legends of appalachia did/do now.

(why do we have those urban legends and oral traditions warning yall out of the woods? to keep babies from gettin lost n dying in them. i know it's a fun tiktok trend rn to tell tale of spooky scary woods like there's really more haints out here than there are anywhere else, but that's a rant for another time too ain't it)

so, the aforementioned little sadie (also known as "bad lee brown" in some cases) was first recorded in the 1920s. i'm also plugging my favorite female-vocaist cover of it there because it's superior when a woman does it, sorry.

it is a pretty straightforward murder ballad in its content--in the original version, the guy kills a woman, a stranger or his girlfriend sometimes depending on who is covering it.

but instead of it being a cautionary 'be careful and don't get pregnant or it's your fault' tale like omie wise and pretty polly, the guy doesn't get away with it, and he's not portrayed as sympathetic like the murderer is in so many ballads.

a few decades after, women started saying fuck you and writing their own murder ballads.

in the 40s, the femme fatale trope was in full swing with women flipping the script and killing their male lovers for slights against them instead.

men began to enter the "find out" phase in these songs and paid up for being abusive partners. women regained their agency and humanity by actually giving themselves an active voice instead of just being essentially 'fridged in the ballads of old.

her majesty dolly parton even covered plenty of old ballads herself but then went on to write the bridge, telling the pregnant-woman-in-the-murder-ballad's side of things for once. love her.

as a listener, i realized that i personally prefer these modern covers of appalachian murder ballads sung by women-led acts like dolly and gillian welch and even the super-recent crooked still especially, because there is a sense of reclamation, subverting its roots by giving it a woman's voice instead.

meaning that, like a lot else from the problematic past, the appalachian murder ballad is something to be enjoyed with critical ears. violence against women is an evergreen issue, of course, and you're going to encounter a lot of that in this branch of historical music.

but with folk songs, and especially the murder ballad, being such a foundational element of appalachian history and culture and fitting squarely into the appalachian gothic, i still find them important and so, so interesting

i do feel it's worth mentioning that there are "tamer" ones. with traditional and modern murder ballads alike, some of them are just for "fun," like a murder mystery novel is enjoyable to read; not all have a message or retell a historical trial.

(for instance, i'd even argue ultra-modern, popular americana songs like hell's comin' with me is a contemporary americana murder ballad--being sung by a male vocalist and having evolved from being at the expense of a woman to instead being directed at a harmful and corrupt church. that kind of thing)

in short: it continues to evolve, and i continue to eat that shit up.

anyway, to leave off, lemme share with yall my personal favorite murder ballad which fits squarely into murder mystery/horror novel territory imo.

it's the 10th child ballad and was originally known as "the twa sisters." it's been covered to hell n back and named and renamed.

but! if you listen to any flavor of americana, chances are high you already know it; popular names are "the dreadful wind and rain" and sometimes just "wind and rain."

in it, a jealous older sister pushes her other sister into a river (or stream, or sea, depending on who's covering it) over a dumbass man. the little sister's body floats away and a fiddle maker come upon her and took parts of her body to make a fiddle of his own. the only song the new fiddle plays is the tale about how it came to be, and it is the same song you have been listening to until then.

how's that for genuinely spooky-scary appalachia, y'all?

[crystalgastles]

I hate most realistic depictions of Jeff the killer because it doesn’t feel like people are making him realistic because of the horror aspect of it, more of the fact that they want to just make him as brutal as possible with no reason because it makes them upset when people don’t depict him that way. Don’t get me wrong I love a good psychoanalysis on why he does what he does and how he CAN be brutal and scary. My favorite depiction of him that isn’t my own is my mutuals who has created arguably the most terrifying version of him in my eyes. However when you create a depiction of him that is essentially “he hates everyone and eats babies and puppies because that’s realistic, no I will not explain why and every other depiction of him is wrong. I am a Reddit edgelord” it makes me think you just don’t want people to be creative with a character who’s og story has no weight nowadays. (I’m convinced cis men can’t write for creepypasta because of the way horror media loves to brutalize women but I won’t get in on that… for now)

[jaeyunologyy]

Anonymous asked:

02z fucking you with fnaf animatronic heads on 🫢

a/n: not gonna be lore accurate bcs im horny as fuck for them, at first i wanna use the ogs fnaf 1 characters but fuck it let's pick one hot character from the first 3 fnaf(s) + my two worlds colliding :)

edit: felt like reposting this for spooky szn :)

jay wearing springtrap's

the worn out green bunny head covering his masculine face only making his sharp eyes visible making you feel some type of way. dirty but thrilled. scared but aroused.

you sensed fear in your veins while you look at the psychopathic killer bunny animatronic head that you despise so much is now being worn by your lover while his cock is pounding you so good not missing any spots, his fat tip is throbbing inside of you because you're tighter clamping down on him today.

is it the springtrap head making you scared so you behave with your best or you're just actually a fucked up little girl living her best life with her dark fantasy?

his big hand wrapped around your throat pressing the sides lightly making you lightheaded, you're already a bit fuzzy from small space of the vent that's been pinning him against you since earlier when you guys were crawling in it to explore the place more and you found springtrap's head in one of the lanes in the vents.

his voice echoed within the small space of springtrap's head. "little bunny is too tight on me today, is she enjoying herself hmm? my little doll is pretty with fear in her eyes. did you like getting fucked by a monster. who could kill you in an instant baby? hell you're gushing on me right now. guess i know the answer now, and if i'm not satisfied with it i can always come back right?" and the growly voice of his was accompanied by creaking noises of the vent while he was pistoning in and out of you or maybe you just have a visitor that's enjoying the show?

jake wearing mangle's

you're bent over the counter in the pizzeria's kitchen while your whiny boyfriend is fucking you with a white & pink fox head he found while trampling around the abandoned placed.

while you were looking around the kitchen he creeped up behind you catching you off guard which was so hot because he was so light on his steps that you did not catch a sound you felt so small to him. you could feel his breath right by your face that was pressed against mangle's muzzle.

jake was a huge a fan of mangle and he admitted to you during halloween that he wanted to fuck you while he's wearing a mask preferably mangle's.

and that's how you ended up breaking in to the pizzeria to find the head for him to wear while he's angling his tip to press against your gspot making you trickle out on the floor from squirting for him. the excitement from the fear made the sex much more enjoyable. the intermission noise sounded from the surveillance, you knew they were near but fuck you're too brainless for it.

"you like my mask baby? you squirted all over the floor because of it. need to take you again in our bedroom many many times you want while i put this mask on." you felt he nuzzled against your neck with the mask on while lightly grazing the razor sharp teeth on your nape. "need to mark you with it so you can't never run away from me. i'll always catch you puppy. you're mine, you're under me forever."

sunghoon wearing foxy's

sunghoon has been so mean to you ever since you told him you liked foxy and how you found him attractive for an animatronic.

it's so ironic when he was fucking you on the security guard table while wearing foxy's head. he knew about your fantasy and even though he's mean about it, he's still willing to be dragged by you to go 'visit' the pre-demolished pizzeria in order to bring home foxy's mask.

ever since you got the mask you can't stop gushing on how cool it is, how pretty it is, how valuable it could be and how bad you want to be fucked by the animatronic if it's capable of it. it pissed sunghoon off so much, he pulled you into the surveillance room, closing both side doors and made you sit on the table while he put the mask on snapping the jaw at your face everytime you made a too loud sound and finger you open to take his cock.

"really pup? you wanna get fucked by a fox robot, so fucking nasty. i know stupid girls like you only think about getting stuffed by random things in their cunny but a fox? that's disgusting little vixen. i can always fuck you baby. anytime. and i'll make you feel much better than that stupid fox could."

you guys left the guard room with cumstains and bite marks on your shoulders, neck and chest from hoon's biting using foxy's teeth. it might've been your imagination but you were sure a growl outside the door when hoon was talking down the fox while fucking you.

[bonniesfamiliar]

The bat brothers really know how to make me cry. Especially their parallels.

Dick Grayson: Dick is the OG angry Robin, not Jason and I hate how no one remembers that Dick is the angry one who became Robin to get revenge on his parent's killer.

Jason Todd: Jason became Robin because he figured out Bruce's identity after finding the Batcave and was a huge literature nerd and bookworm who went to school on time and arrived at his classes early because he LOVED to learn. HE ONLY BECAME THE ANGRY ROBIN BECAUSE EVERYONE SAID HE'D NEVER AMOUNT TO THE LEGACY THAT DICK LEFT BEHIND.

Tim Drake: Tim (MY BABY) became Robin because Batman was killing himself and was losing his morals. The very thing that made him Batman. Tim didn't get the father that Dick and Jason got. No. Tim got Bruce trying to shove him away at every moment and Tim trained with Batman, not BatDad. He mainly trained with Lady Shiva since Bruce shipped him off.

Tim & Duke: These two make me cry. You got Tim who was tortured and moulded into Joker Junior  (in Batman Beyond: Return of The Joker) whereas Duke's parents were victims of Joker's laughing gas and I really hate how no one pulls these two into a fanfic together and makes them get therapy.

Damian Wayne and Tim Drake have to be the saddest pair of brothers (after Jason Todd and Dick Grayson) I have ever met.

Damian has been told his entire life that he's a weapon and the only thing he's good at is being a weapon but Tim has been told his entire life that he's nothing but a tool to be used and discarded when he no longer has a use.

Yh.

These brothers really make me cry.

[rafescorpsebride]

Sorry, I just wanted to hear you Scream

Tate Langdon x fem reader

On Halloween, your ghost boyfriend can leave the murder house and you finally ask him what you’ve been wanting to know. Why was he Ghostface before his death?

I cannot believe I found this! From over a year ago. One of my favorite fics I’ve ever written. Reuploaded for my sis @marchsfreakshow and my OG @oceanblvd111 thank you for your endless love and support since I came back on here.

CW: Talks of violence, ghostface!tate, switch Tate, mommy kink, oral, knife play, unprotected sex, old so not as good as my recent writing.

Halloween was your favorite day of the year. Not only was the weather perfect, the best scary movies were released, costumes became creative but also because Tate could go out and venture into the world.

This was your second Halloween together. The first year you went to the beach. A place he admitted used to be his designated spot whenever he needed to escape. You had discussed back and forth before ultimately deciding to have your date at a graveyard.

It filled your gothic heart. Your relationship was exciting, despite his eternal life as a ghost.

Tate carried the blanket and bottle of liquor you bought on your way home. The walk wasn’t far, allowing you to wear platform shoes that went along with your costume. You were dressed as the Scarlet Witch. Trading in your black clothing for red.

Tate allowed you to paint his face with makeup, skeletal features were his preference. It took you almost an hour but you wanted to be precise. You slicked his curly hair back with product. But he would do anything you asked. He was your good boy. You held your own bag close to your body. A week ago, you gifted him a cellphone. For reason one, he could contact you while you were working. And secondly, it would make tonight even better. It was secured in his denim pocket. He wasn’t able to hold your hand, so you opted to hold the crook of his elbow.

You stepped through the entrance of the cemetery. The overhanging metal curved over your head as your eyes swept over the hundreds of tombstones. “This way, baby.” Tate gestured with his head towards the left. You allowed yourself to be guided. Your feet padded over the grass. It was dark, but the adjacent streetlight gave you enough ability to see your path.

Tate led you down the narrow section between a towering tree and a collection of tombstones before he pulled you to a stopping point in front of a smaller one. “Here I am.” He smirked, his skeleton makeup curving, turning to look at you. The modest headstone was ordinary, without any flowers to commemorate the loss. You nodded as you registered the name.

Tate Langdon 1977- 1994. Loving son.

You chuckled breathlessly at his joke. “This is one hell of an idea, having a date in front of your own grave.”

Tate quirked an eyebrow before pulling you to a seated position, setting the blanket down on the ground and alcohol aside. You both hadn’t bothered with cups, planning on just drinking out of the bottle, something you’d both done several times. He wrapped his arm around you, your head nuzzled on his shoulder.

“What was your motive, Tate? Being Ghostface?” It was before you were born but everyone heard about the killing spree during 1994. It started with one murder, a teenage girl strung up on a tree. Before it escalated to a principal. Those weren’t enough to raise concerns until the last night when the killer was caught.

It was at a party. A curfew had been given but a group of teens threw a gathering anyway. Two more people were murdered. Brutally. One girl was inside a dog door inside the garage. The man’s throat had been slit and he was dragged across the front of a van.

The murderer wore a gown and a mask.

Tate Langdons identity was revealed after he had been gunned down by the swat team. He took too long at the house as the police were called. The term Ghostface had been taken as a joke before it ultimately stuck with him. But he never revealed why he did it. Even during the last seconds of his life. Yet, his soul remained in the very home he was killed in.

He had been shot down in the Murder House.

You’d seen the apparel once. When he played the same game with you after class several weeks ago. Where he fingered you, used the very blade he commented the crimes with. It gave him pleasure to scare you. Or try too.

“My motive?” He asked, glancing down at you. He didn’t like to talk about his past. He hated answering questions because he didn’t want to relive it. He was always paranoid you’d leave him if he explained. You knew the relationship was toxic. But you still loved him.

Besides. He was already dead. What more could he do?

“Yes. Why did you do it?” You lifted your chin upward, watching as he clenched his jaw.

“Who said I needed a reason?” You pursed your lips as he teased you.

“Tate. Be serious. Why? Why did you kill them?”

Several seconds of silence followed. All you felt was the pattern of his breathing.

“I wanted to die. And I wanted to take people with me. I wanted to scare them. I wanted them to think they had a chance to escape me. I wanted my mother to know exactly what kind of monster she created. That’s why I killed her boyfriend. I wanted her to know the pain she made me feel.”

You allowed the confession to hang in the air. It wasn’t fear you felt, more like a realization that Tate had been dangerous. Your loving, doting and obsessed boyfriend had been a killer. He knew exactly how to press the blade down on your skin without breaking it. He knew how to walk without making noise. He enjoyed seeing you beg for him. Beg for his cock. Beg for him to let you finish.

But you wanted him to have a turn. He needed to experience it.

“Mmm. Did you like being covered in blood?” You asked, your voice soft despite the disturbing question.

Tate swallowed. “I didn’t really think about it.” You nodded and pulled your hands in your lap. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead starting at the stone.

“Do you ever think about me, covered in blood?” You withheld a smile when he took a sharp inhale. He blinked.

“Y-yes.” He looked down at you but you reached up, taking his chin between your thumb and pointer finger. You set his jaw straight.

“Did I say you could look at me?” Tate shakes his head obediently.

“Good boy. Do you ever think about…me killing someone?” His lips parted and he heavily inhaled through his nose.

“Yes.” He half whispered, half whined.

“Have you thought about fucking me in the costume? Using the knife on me again? While I’m covered in someone else’s blood?”

Tate shifted on the ground, his eyes glazing as he tried to keep his focus ahead. “Babe-“

“Don’t interrupt me, Tate. Be good and answer only when I tell you to.” You sternly commanded. “Yes or no?”

“Yes.” He shakily answered. You needed to push a little harder, just a bit to get exactly what you needed.

“What are you thinking about now, Tate? And make sure you’re honest.” You kept watching him. His teeth grazed his lower lip, despite the paint and his hand started to drift to his pants.

“I want to splay you on the ground, right here. Right now. I want to spread your legs, taste you with my mouth before I fuck you senseless. Until you can’t wait. And then do it all over again.” You quirked an eyebrow before your hand fell to his thigh.

“What about you, baby? Don’t you want me to make you feel good? To suck your dick? Make you cum in my mouth?” He shivered and his fingers drifted to his crotch.

“I’d rather feel you cum. I don’t care about me. All I want is you.” You hummed and your finger tips grazed his growing erection.

“Mmm. You’re such a sweet boy, Tate. Do you like it when my legs are around your head? Do you like that?”

Tate’s hand finally palmed his dick and you smiled in triumph. You lifted yourself from his embrace and you grabbed his wrist.

“Tate. Did I say you could touch yourself? Don’t you remember our rules?” Tate’s eyes widened in response and you shook your head disapprovingly.

The rules consisted that Tate was not allowed to touch himself without permission. Neither were you. Along with a safe word. Mercy.

“I’m sorry-I thought you-“

Your hand raised and wrapped around his neck. You pulled him close as he grunted from the pressure. You squeezed steadily the sides of his throat and you leaned in, hovering over his mouth. “Mmm, my sweet little boy. Getting hard over me being drenched in blood. You’re absolutely pathetic.”

Tate’s eyes glasses over and his lip slightly trembled. “Mama-please-“ He leaned in to kiss you but you pulled your head away.

“I don’t think so, Tate. I think…you need to be punished. Would you agree?” You proposed and he swallowed heavily. Fear prickling his expression.

“Do whatever you want to me. Just let me touch you, please.” Tate placed his hands on your waist, squeezing gently and causing your knee to settle inbetween his legs. “Please, please let me touch you. I can make it up to you. I promise, baby. I can’t stand the thought of you mad at me.”

He laid down, his hair like a blonde halo on the ground as he stared up at you, your hand still wrapped around his neck. He looked so submissive. So willing to make you happy. Ready for you to use him however you fucking wanted. And you will.

“You’ll make it up to me?” You whispered. Tate started grinding his dick down on your knee, humping like a bitch in heat.

“Yes, anything. I’ll do anything for you.” He encouraged, slipping his fingers down to your waistband, your dark leggings stretching as he attempted to touch your underwear. Removing your hand from his throat, you slapped him across the face. Tate grimaced from the impact, his head jolting to the side and he blinked at you with watery eyes.

“I didn’t say you could touch me, Tate.” He leaned up, taking his hands off your torso and buried his face in your breasts.

You attempted to push him down but he was a lot stronger than you despite his slender form. His arms wrapped around your hips, making you straddle his pelvis.

“Mama-I’m sorry-I just need you. I want to make you cum. I want you to be proud of me-please let me be good. I promise you’ll be proud of me…” He was begging. You almost gave in, withholding a moan as he pressed kisses on your costume covered breasts but you needed to stick with your plan.

“Tate, if you want to make me feel good. Lay down. Lay down nice and slow for me, baby.” He quickly pulled away, his face paint smudged as he slowly laid his body down on the grass.

You were situated above him, powerful and he was willing to obey every command you gave him. Reaching your hand down, you brushed his cheek with your fingers and he contently leaned in to your touch. “Now, I want you to close your eyes. Keep them closed until you know exactly when to open them.” You instructed in a clear voice.

Tate opened his mouth to protest but you gripped his chin between your fingers. Leaving nail imprints. “What did I say about disobeying me?” He shut them immediately after that. You smirked. Now, the real fun could begin.

Carefully, you brought yourself to stand. Your boots crunching the grass beneath you while walking to your bag. Digging through it, your hands locked around a lightweight but long, black gown. Slipping it on, you then pulled out the last needed item.

The Ghostface mask. And the same blade Tate used on you.

Slipping it over your hair and face, you started walking away as quiet as you could. Then, you tucked the knife to your belt inside the gown. If Tate heard running, he would open his eyes too soon. You disappeared in the bustle of trees across the cemetery before stepping behind the church. Smiling wickedly, you pulled out your cellphone.

Tate was growing impatient. He listened to your footsteps carefully, trying to figure out where you were before they disappeared entirely. Seconds passed, he felt alone. Despite your warnings, Tate opened his eyes and sat up.

You were gone.

Panic set in and he jumped to his feet. What if something was wrong? His breathing grew heavier as he jogged through the area, desperately searching for any signs of you. He called out but no answer came.

“Fuck. Fucking shit.” He ran his fingers through his mused hair and stepped forward in the direction of the church, but his cellphone started ringing.

Tate frowned and looked at his pocket. Only one person knew of his number. Maybe you needed help. He dug it out of the material and pressed it to his ear.

“are you okay? Where are you?”

“Hello, Tate Langdon.” He froze and his eyes widened. The voice on the other end.

Was Ghostface. The very same alteration he used in 1994. The same he used to call you.

He opened and closed his mouth, unable to come up with a response. It was all a trick. It was you. But…how did you sneak it past him?

“Don’t you know it’s bad manners not to respond to a greeting?” Ghostface prodded and Tate cleared his throat.

“Hey. is that what you were planning? Where are you?”

“Tate, you’ve been such a bad boy. Dreaming about your girlfriend killing someone.” He huffed out an embarrassed breath and scanned the area around him.

“This-this isn’t funny, asshole.” He muttered under his breath.

“Oh, I’d be careful about calling me names, Tate. You wouldn’t want me to slit that pretty neck of yours, would you?” Ghostface leered. Tate chuckled and started moving towards the trees.

“That wouldn’t matter. I’m already dead.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be punished, Tate. For all the things you did to those poor, innocent people.”

“Innocent?” He parroted.

“Yes. In fact, I wonder if movies influenced you. Movies can be a powerful inspiration. Tell me…what’s your favorite scary movie?” Tate squatted down, trying to see evidence of your boot prints but he didn’t see anything.

“Do you really have to go through the whole speech? I asked too many questions.” He said to himself.

“Is that a refusal to my question? Mmm, Tate. You just can’t listen, can you?” Ghostface teased and he sighed with frustration.

“Where are you?”

“Aw, you look so pretty when you’re desperate.” He looked around, realizing you must be close by, able to see his expression. Instead of answering, he crept closer to the church.

“What happens if I find you?” He asked, excitedly looking for you.

“Then, you get to make me cum. Just like you want.” Tate groaned and quickly looked behind the building.

No one was there.

He went to speak before a hand gripped his hair, yanking him back and a sharp blade pressed against his neck. He gasped.

“You didn’t think it be that easy, did you?” You said, voice still altered. Tate wanted desperately to turn around and pound her on the ground but the knife nicked his skin.

Blood trickled down and the hand that gripped his hair, traveled down his face, to his throat. Her finger collected the plasma and smeared it across his lips.

“Please, Christ I can’t take it anymore. Please, let me fuck you. I’m begging you, please.” Tate pleaded. You turned him around.

He stared down at her, her gown hung on her body. The mask was secure and she aimed the knife at his chest. “Sorry, I just wanted to hear you scream.”

“Get on your back.” You commanded. Tate fell to the ground, landing underneath you and you smiled behind the mask. Finally, he was listening. With your free hand, you unbutton his jeans and yanked them down.

You lifted his shirt up, exposing his v line and the thin patch of hair. His dick was hard and prominent through his boxers. A wet patch of precum staining it. You shook your head, taking the blade and lightly tracing it across his skin.

Tate inhaled sharply and bucked his hips. Humping the air as you played with the knife. His hand lifted and you smacked his crotch with the handle. He stilled, panting as you peeled off the mask. You set the blade down, hooking your fingers around his waistband and then you pulled it down his legs.

His cock hung heavy, thick and red at the tip. “So needy, baby.” Your voice was back to normal. You lowered yourself on your stomach, wrapping your hand around his dick before licking a single stripe along the vein.

Tate whimpered with a high pitch whine as his hand flew to your hair. Allowing the grip, you pulled the tip to your lips and started sucking gently. His fingers pulled your hair, hard enough to hurt but you massaged his cock with your hand as you bobbed your head up and down.

He was a mess, moaning and shaking as you gave him head. “I’m gonna-I’m gonna cum.” He grunted. His climax rushed through, gushing out of your mouth as you helped him ride out his orgasm.

You pulled back, your lipstick smeared and you wiped your chin with the back of your hand. Before you had a chance to breathe, Tate flipped you over, immediately smashing his lips to yours. As he shoved his tongue in your mouth, hungrily kissing you, his hand frantically felt your torso. You kissed him back feverishly, pulling his hair as he sank his teeth into your lower lip.

You mewled as he ripped himself away and then sloppily kissing your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. “You’re mine, all fucking mine.” He pleaded like a prayer as he rocked his hips against yours, his hardening dick against you.

As submissive as he was, Tate could also fuck you like it was his last time ever doing so. You were lost in the growing pleasure as he brushed his tongue against your sweet spot. He fumbled to pull your leggings down and underwear down, any coordination gone as he shoved himself down. You wanted to resist, regain control but he pried your legs apart.

“Tate-“ You started but he shook his head. He opened his mouth, laid his tongue flat against your pussy as he started lapping away at your clit.

“No, no, don’t tell me to stop. I need this, mommy.” He moaned against your cunt as he circled his tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves. You tried to withhold your sounds but he grazed your pussy with his teeth. “No, I want to hear how good this feels.” Tate dug his fingernails into your thighs to keep you still, dragging them painfully but deliciously down. You felt the hilt of the knife against your entrance and you looked down. Tate’s eyes were black as he effortlessly slipped the handle inside you. The foreign feeling pumped in and out as his mouth worked your swollen pussy. You weren’t going to last much longer as he increased the speed.

A overpowering wave of pleasure exploded and you couldn’t make any noise as you trembled. Tate finally pulled back and removed the handle from you. He crawled up, cupping your chin before he kissed you. Forcing you to taste your own cum.

“I need to fuck you,” He moaned against your lips as he shuffled clumsily to line himself up with your cunt.

He nipped your lip too hard, blood pooled from the small wound and he repeated your earlier actions. Smudging your mouth with blood as he bottomed you out. “Fuck.” He growled. “You look so hot with blood on your skin.”

You arms wrapped around his shoulders as he thrusted, deep inside you, hard enough to hit your cervix but you loved the pain. His movements were growing sloppy. “Don’t cum until I say, Tate. Or else I’ll have to punish you again.”

But he couldn’t listen, his speed thudded inside you and you felt him spill inside you, he squeezed his eyes shut from the orgasm as he came to a stop. He ripped them back open in fear as he understood his mistake. “I’m sorry-you just felt so good-“ He pleaded but you wouldn’t have it.

You pushed him off, forcing him on his stomach as you straddled his back. His bare pelvis pressed against the ground as you trailed your fingers down his skin.

“Now, you’re really going to scream.”

@taintandviolent @bloodibambiidoll @cxrrodedcoffin @evansroses @rafesheaven @stillwjk-channie-lixie @fear-is-truth

[the-s1lly-corner]

Petnames (Creepypasta edition)(remake)

lmao if youve been around since the beginning youll remember that this was one of my first posts- in fact i think you can find it linked in the first creepypasta masterlist in my pinned! been wanting to "return to form" so to speak and write general group hcs- this post may contain different hcs compared to the og, but it def will have more characters! i think i might remake a bunch of older posts since i like comparing how my hcs and writing has changed over time!! characters: slenderman, splendorman, eyeless jack, laughing jack, masky, hoodie, ticci toby, nina the killer, jane the killer, jeff the killer, puppeteer, bloody painter notes: reader is gn, any gendered petnames will be given an alt if applicable (ex. princess/prince), very short post, only really contains what they call you and what you call them in return, no real meat to it tbh, like a snack post, all characters are referred to as "them" not because of any pronoun hc i just copy/pasted it over and over and didnt feel like editing it cws: none

SLENDERMAN

They like calling you: Love, Darling, and Dear, and sometimes he simply says your name

You call them: He doesn't have much of a preference, but I can see Hon being a default... something about calling an old forest monster Hon feels amusing... Handsome also feels right

SPLENDORMAN

They like calling you: Honey, Dear, Schnookums, Sweetie, really he's open to calling you almost anything! He has a love for the more ridiculous names!

You call them: He doesn't have much of a preference either but if you call him Sweetiepie hes going to be head over heels... another one that just feels right...

MASKY

They like calling you: He doesnt talk all that much, but he does sometimes leave you notes and very rarely signs... on the occasion he leaves a note for you or speaks, he simply says your name! That's really it!

You call them: Prefers you to not refer to him with any name, though some petnames are on thin ice... Babe is the only one he seems to be receptive to

HOODIE

They like calling you: Looooves leaving you notes and makes a namesign for you, doesnt speak at all btw... can see him calling you by your name, Babe, Baby.. as an aside I can see Brian being a Babe/Baby dude so imagine that carries over

You call them: Sweet potato, Bud, Pumplin, Honey/Honey Bun

TICCI TOBY

They like calling you: He feels a little off calling you something that isnt some variation of your name, it could be because its different so hes not used to the mouth feel... tends to call you by a shortened version of your name

You call them: similarly hes not used to being called anything other than his name, at least not when it comes to positive things.. but he does seem to like cutie patootie as a joke

JEFF THE KILLER

They like calling you: Babe, Baby, jokingly Dumbass, Lovely.. though Babe is his default!

You call them: Hon, his name, and if youre feeling a little funny you can try to call him a dumb lovey dovey name- but just know hes going to give you the stink eye

JANE THE KILLER

They like calling you: You name for the most part, but I can see her calling you Hon!

You call them: Prefers her name but is not opposed to you calling her sweetheart!

NINA THE KILLER

They like calling you: will call you every name under the sun and may make her own to keep things fresh! its always a wild card!

You call them: doesnt care what you call her, shes going to wear it like a badge of honor and shes going to obsess over whatever nickname you give her

LAUGHING JACK

They like calling you: it comes as a shock to no one when i say that he calls you any variation of the sweet names... sweetheart, sweetpea, sweet thing, and so on... sometimes calls you sugar or toots if you let him

You call them: looooves when you call him lovey/lovely or any pie based name- honey pie for example

EYELESS JACK

They like calling you: tends to also call you by your name... hes not too big on affection, though rest assured he does love you. bro has little to no dating experience, he has ZERO game/lh

You call them: is a little picky with names, allows you to call him by his name.. the sillest he lets you go is calling him love bug

PUPPETEER

They like calling you: dear, dearest, lovely, and darling are his usual go tos!

You call them: you sometimes call him casanova as a joke but its slowly turned into one of your go to names, likes being called prince as well every now and then

BLOODY PAINTER

They like calling you: defaults to your name but will sometimes call you beautiful/handsome, othertimes he might call you sunshine

You call them: pretty boy, dear are the ones hes most receptive to. he may not bother responding if you dare call him pookie .. he prefers his name above all else, though

[murderlight]

A Killer Invitation 🎄❤️‍🔥 | 18.8k words of fake relationship, baby!

for bacchanalia on ao3, for the og grimmichi discord secret santa 2024. expect my usual shenanigans within <3

[casperisdrawing]

my thoughts on how these guys grow (phases 2,3, and 7 by charles chiodo)

[leonstoenailunderhisbed]

-MASTERLIST-

Color Key

Red: NSFW

Blue: angst/ hurt no comfort

Pink: fluff/comfort

Green: horror/goth/unsettling

Orange: headcanon/analysis

Professor!Leon x Reader (NFSW)

- Professor, I didn’t cheat.

- Professor, I didn’t cheat pt.2

Older!Leon x Reader (NSFW)

- My baby, my baby… (angst)

- My baby, my baby… pt. 2

Yan!Leon X Reader (NSFW)

- American Psycho Killer

- American Psycho Killer: The Sequel

Prince!Leon X Reader Trilogy (NSFW)

- You've bewitched me

- You've bewitched me, body and soul

- You’ve bewitched me, I never wish to be parted from you

Mafia!Boss!Leon X Reader Trilogy (NSFW)

- Cupid doesn’t gamble

- Cupid doesn’t gamble II

- Cupid doesn’t gamble III

NSFW Leon x Reader

SFW Leon x Reader

OG series

- Insurgency index

Leon Headcanons

RE: Incorrect Quotes

- RE Meme Quotes

- RE as Bojack Quotes

My short analytical essays on RE

- Leon Psychoanalysis

- Color Theory vs. RE

- Villain Analysis

- Did Leon change or did he stay the same?

- Leon’s intelligence

- My interpretation on Aeon

[palmettoshenanigans]

Hmm. Fox Family Reunion? Except, its for Wymack's retirement so every Fox generation shows up for the reunion - including the OG Foxes.

But like, all the OG Foxes show up fashionably late because they pregamed together at Edens probably. They show up, and generations of baby Foxes (yes they graduated, no the OG Foxes won't stop calling them baby Foxes, hush now) stare at the enigmas that are the collection of confirmed murders, criminal records, organized crime connections, serial killer parentage, and god knows what else.

Like, nothing the baby Foxes have gone through to qualify as a Fox lights a tea candle to the OGs - five different connections to organized crime and three belong to one Fox??? Come on now.

Some of them are rude, or standoffish, or scared, or in awe of them as they hug and chat with Wymack and Abby and Bee and rib on each other like they're still twenty-something college students. Several of them are Olympic Gold Medalists - but did we forget about those criminal records??? The murders???

Eventually shit calms down and it stops being such a fucking side show but like,,,

The OG Foxes from the perspective of later gen Foxes during the final Fox Family Reunion, sending Wymack off to blissful retirement.

(But not peaceful retirement. The Foxes still have his number after all.)