GOTHAM'S GODFATHER.

the masque of red death .

[dimasque-a]

₍ ₁ ₎      ROMAN SIONIS AKA BLACK MASK     —    from detective comics.    reconstructed on the basis of headcanon and inspiration from the arkham games.    as convicted by doll,    she  /  her,    18+

      𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴,    𝘪 . 𝘪𝘪 .   —   𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘥.   —   𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨.    —   𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵.

₍ ₂ ₎      AN EXPLORATION IN  . . .  the discrepancy between the real self and the perceived self.   identity as a performance.    hunger as a driving factor.   consumerism  &  corporate greed.   class differences.   the extravaganza of crime,   execution as entertainment,   murder as art.    

[arcserpent]

I DON’T WANT TO BE LOVED,   I DON’T WANT TO BE FORGIVEN,   LET ME REDEFINE GOD INTO SOMETHING I CAN BECOME.     (  the archangel lucifer / the devil of original lore,   as inspired by milton’s paradise lost and various other.   as prophesied by doll.  )

[dimasque-a]

the urge to bring back my fandomless interpretation of lucifer 😩

[dimasque-a]

' i want you to have some respect. '   @crimesqe​​​​​​​​ said.

their two shadows curve against the backdrop of the club,      this conversation they share lost to the night,    enveloped with voices from within the confines of the establishment,    bedimmed by the ambiance of the avenue.     the rain trickles down,    some stray droplets coating his hair.    streams of water seep into the cobbled paths,    shifting like snakes,    to the the drains.    it’s a bleak evening,    he hadn’t anticipated her presence to accompany his outside,    at the balcony,    and by extension the interruption to his smoke break.      ❝    some people might say it’s to be earned.    or bought,    whichever way works better.    ❞    the downpour bounces off the umbrella he has leaned against one shoulder,    balanced in the crook of his arm as a cigarette is placed between teeth,    after the previous is disposed of,    and a lighter taken out.    he tips his chin and glances down.    their eyes meet.  

❝    you know,    i’ve always held your father in high esteem.    he knew how to round up a city.    i presume you mean to continue down that path.    ❞    roman muses,    and what his features contort into is not quite a grin,    rather a polite guise.    if he’s irritated with the blunt demand,    it’d be difficult to draw as a conclusion from his composed manner.    smoke entangles with the words,    muddling the line between fabrication and truth.    to disregard the mark the falcone family have made upon gotham would be a fool’s endeavor.    truthfully,    he tips a hat to the old man.    none of it necessitates his ardent admiration,    however.    falcone’s hold over the city has been a goddamn nuisance of a hurdle to overcome,    with market shares presenting a constant tug of war.      ❝    i believe,    miss falcone,    we might be able to meet somewhere in the middle   . . .    perhaps we’ll both get what we want.    ❞    he seizes the opportunity to drag his gaze over her in consideration,    the glass door hissing as it’s slid open for her,    the notion being this:    a proposed re-entrance,    the act is on once again.    this is a discussion they’re to continue,    supposedly,    but not here,    and certainly not tonight.    nothing can be entertained under the threat of eyes and ears,    beyond the drawl of faint intrigue,    prevalent as a small flame in a pitch-black room,    easily shrouded all the same.     ❝    after you.    ❞

[dimasque-a]

    happy monday 😌✌

[dimasque-a]

       low-maintenance plotting call 🎭

[dimasque-a]

the way this is roman at any business meeting / formal event ...

[dimasque-a]

i simply think that you should let your muse indulge in a ballroom dance with roman... him and who ?

[dimasque-a]

imagine if the g.otham r.ogues had like.. very active social media presence

[dimasque-a]

A DICHOTOMY BETWEEN THE MAN & THE MASK.   A STUDY IN PRETENSE,    PERFORMANCE,    AND POWER.

[dimasque-a]

good morning besties.

[dimasque-a]

ANORANZAS,   MADAM . . . ?

as a child, beatriz was taught that casinos were a place off-limits to her kind of people. she understood that the people fraternizing inside of the mysterious complexes, which dotted the shoreline of her native san juan, were yankee sailors, tourists, and puerto ricans of means. “it’s just as well that they keep us out,” her mother told her with the utmost confidence, for she had seen the insides of the casinos in her capacity as a cleaning woman, “gambling is the devil’s sport.”

but oh, how things have changed. on weekends when her husband vanishes on mysterious business, beatriz will sometimes leave her children with the nanny, in search of excitement within the walls of the casinos on the east coast. she still isn’t much for betting — perhaps because in all areas of life, luck eludes her — but the stage shows are lovely and the food divine.

on this night she takes a break from watching the main lounge’s comedic act to snag a drink from the bar. just as soon as she has caught the bartender’s attention, however, a gentleman cuts in to order a refreshment of his own. beatriz is taken aback by the interruption ; scandalized by the confidence with which the stranger disregards her obvious presence.

“bandido,” she mutters indignantly, and sets her searing gaze on the man. “you were never taught to mind when a woman is speaking ?”

night falls like a drape over the cityscape,    or a curtain over the stage of gotham,    a signal of the changing act.     it’s the depth of depravity that emerges with the dark.    outside,    the cobbled paths are wet with rain,    a thin sheet of moisture entwined with the humid air of the jersey shore,    and down the span of these busy streets the flashing arrangements of lights and billboards blur and blend into one;    invitations,    or temptations,    it’s a thin line between the two.    it’s an evening like any other.     in truth,    the trivial delinquency happening in the shadows ‘round every street-corner had next to nothing on the tangled dealings within the finest establishments.

a typical occasion,    then.    within the finely furnished confines of the casino,    mr. sionis is to be meeting a group of clients  —  they’re yet to arrive  —  that’s the euphemistic detailing of his circumstances,    anyway.   he had paid no mind to the woman at the bar when he’d cut in front of her,    cigarette in hand,    and his usual order delivered.    he hadn’t expected her to make a fuss over it.    most usually didn’t,    on the basis of reputation alone.    it prompts a shift in his demeanor.   he chances a proper look at her,    leaning further against the counter,    an arm laid across it in a languid manner that masks the calculation behind it quite well.     ❝    you’ll have to excuse me,    i didn’t quite see you there.    ❞    the lie rolls pleasantly off his tongue as though it were merely repartee.    it’s accompanied by the charm of an apologetic smile,    or an adroit little act of one.   

dark eyes subtly roam over the expanse of her face,    her features,    and for a brief moment he considers the familiarity of them.     he thinks he’s not too bad at faces.   it pays to be perceptive.  possibly he’s seen her on the arm of some associate,    more likely than that a rival,    and further,    one down the line of his other profession  —  in any case acquainted.   ‘ make that two. ’   he says to the bartender,    with a wisp of renewed intrigue.    then to her,    ❝    i don’t suppose you accept apologies in mojitos?    please,    on me.    ❞

[dimasque-a]

my usual writing style encompassing extended metaphors and analogical narratives within narratives  versus  roman being very grounded and a no time for bullshit sort of guy who thinks strictly about work at all times.

[notmorbid]

the trespasser, pt. 2.

dialogue prompts from the trespasser by tana french.

don’t be giving me the big sad eyes, you sap.

the bit of silence suits you.

i’m here now. let’s hear it.

fancy moral decisions aren’t my job.

there’s a fine line between hope and desperation.

you think it was all an act?

sweet jumping jesus on a pogo stick.

you need a better alarm system.

you almost gave me a heart attack.

i nearly shot you, you know that?

i’m glad you came. it’s good to see you.

i don’t believe in second-guessing.

are you gonna slam your bedroom door and sulk?

too much nature gives me the creeps.

yeah, i’m a bitch. i knew that already.

i’m okay on my own.

sometimes i think i’ve forgotten what it’s like to be normal.

you can tell me anything you want or nothing.

you thought i was calling for help disposing of a body, didn’t you?

nobody has to know.

text me when you’re home. let me know you got in okay.

i could’ve gone my whole life without that mental image.

justice does nothing for the dead.

what if you don’t like what you find out?

it would’ve been hysterical if it wasn’t so insane.

we can’t afford to get angry or excited. keep it together.

i want you to have some respect.

i’m starting to think i should stay single.

how stupid do i look?

let’s all thank god for small mercies.

people are complicated.

the story’s going to come out, sooner or later.

don’t be getting maudlin on me.

whatever it is, just tell me. 

look on the bright side: we’re never going to have a worse week than this one.

[dimasque-a]

ENBRANN,    FENIX.

unpredictability was synonymous with the name for me made by the city.          the city itself was just as unpredictable,   one never knew who was on which side.          EVERYONE RAN DANGER TO BE BETRAYED BY THEIR PARTNERS AT ONE POINT:   it was everyone against everyone,   it was you against me.          whilst the gun was still held tight to his forehead,   the drink he nurtured was taken away.         “   why,   because you bought me a fancy dress     &     told me i have pretty eyes?          you could’ve honestly done much better than that,   rommy.   ”          i raise the glass,   an unspoken toast,   to us.

            a deep exhale followed,   disappointment seeping through     &     through.          gun’s safety still on,   there would be no dead man within the next few minutes.          i search for something the second his gaze meets mine,   there has to be something.          he wasn’t just gonna give up like this,   was he?          “   that.   ”          barrel itches a few inches off the center of his forehead,   as the gap between the two was being reduced.          “              &     his penthouse is bigger than yours,   ”          a whisper before the warning - smile returns to lips.          everyone’s moral had a number on it,   even mine.

“   ITS NOTHING PERSONAL,   I PROMISE.   ”          it was the truth,   though,   this didn’t prevent the mercenary from acting like it was a personal matter.          attention was suddenly grasped by the voice that came through the ear - microphone,   furrowing dark brows in annoyance.          ‘   i didn’t pay you to chit - chat him to death,   kill him!     kill him now.   ’          face twists into something more akin to vexation,   sprinkled with regret on taking the job.

loyalty is like a bag or a new pair of shoes in this city,    just as easily bought,    tried-on,    worn-out,    exchanged.      and morals like cheap thread,    loose and flexible and easily pulled undone.    but then,    no,    cheap is not the right word  —  not in this context  —  they’re expensive.    high price tags on them.    monetary values assigned to personal principles like shadow prices.    the equation to success in gotham.    he wants to seethe,    to be fucking pissed,    or livid,    break her wrist if he could,    for thinking she could get away with betraying him.    it’s also what he’d have done in her place.     business is business.    he can respect that.

a dry laugh is huffed out from between tobacco-stained lungs upon the theft of his beverage,    and the deliverance of her remark,    and the biting back of bright irritation.       ❝    oh,    that was a low fucking blow.    y’know,    i’m gonna be honest,    baby,    it’s starting to feel a little personal right now.    ❞     he says,    scoffs,    making to match her smile.    he’s not wearing the mask,    but a metaphorical one slips in its place just as neatly.    it’s devoid of anything besides a raise of brows.   he’d already settled on an act.    now he’d just have to see if he read her right,    and wagered correctly.

❝    go on then,    before someone walks in.    don’t go screwin’ up your job on my account.     ❞     when fenix lingers closer,    the barrel inching even closer than that,    as though the weapon were an extension of her  —  with a sudden shift,    he hazards a hand over her hip,    pulls her down atop the coach,    so that her figure hovers over his.    the gun’s pointed at his heart now,    over the suit pocket,    or near enough.    the thought of grabbing it,    disarming her,    passes through his mind.    maybe it’d work.    maybe it wouldn’t,    he’s had a bit too many drinks this evening.    he straightens his tie instead.    the action’s performed almost expectantly.    eyes linger on the earpiece.      ❝    unless you’re open to negotiations  —  and some privacy.     ❞

[dimasque-a]

@inpiety​​​​​​ said:    dad?

the high heaps of folders and documents atop the rich mahogany desk almost look like pillars,    castles,    in their neat stacks.     the antique clock chimes,    muffled,    somewhere from down the hall.    casting a glance outside reveals the beginnings of dusk.    roman’s lounged over his chair,    gaze lazily skimming some contract,    one leg over the other,    and both over the top of the desk;    he’d almost forgotten she had been lingering around,    messing with the plethora of little figurines,  heirlooms,    and books collecting dust over the shelves they’re perched upon.    he huffs.     the first few times she’d slipped past his security,    he’d taken it as a challenge to up his game,    invest in a better alarm system,    among other things.    he supposes he’s grown accustomed to it now.    her presence in his life,    like a bright splash of paint atop graphite.    (  not that he can prevent her from breaking in when she sets her mind to it,    but he likes to think he could,    if he really wanted to.  )    amidst the hush of his study,    the silence that sits between them is comfortable.    pleasant,    even.    if anyone were to ask though,    he’d vehemently deny holding any semblance of fondness for the kid.    on principle.      

❝    okay,    ❞    he muses,    after a while,    when he’s comprehended that she’s indeed talking to him  —  there’s no one else in the room,    obviously,    but he’s caught off-guard still  —  and quelled his surprise,    shoved it aside for the time being.    what coats his tone is seemingly exasperation,     with a tinge of amusement.     he’s certain she’s angling for something,    anything,    and for a moment,    he considers just tossing her his wallet per his previous assumption.    instead,    the paper is haphazardly strewn aside.    arms cross over his chest with a grin as he looks to jezebel,    head cant slightly to the left,      ❝    okay,    i’ll bite.    what do you want?    ❞

[nasty-like-nas]

now take me to jail