Black Mask - Tumblr Posts
Black mask said that to Jason in RHAO 5 Jason said “MAYBE” he just said maybe but I think Mask is right. I think Jason doing it for earn Bruce’s love and trust again. He didn’t shoot mask when he got the chance. BRUCE YOU JERK HE JUST WANTS YOUR LOVE GİVE HİM A HUG…..
im really excited for arkham origins but mostly for black mask because wow what a cutie
au where roman acts like an awkward teenager around tough guys who wear leather jackets
There’s a man going around in the town Spreading lies, he’s the bad businessman Does his business while he can He just does his business bad
He’s a clown, going to get bounced around If he don’t keep his business underground He’s a player and every time he deals a round It’s just a bad hand, what a bad man
Black mask: my life is lonely
Red hood: I might have to kink shame you boss man
Black Mask/ Jason Todd
fan art
Dying man’s last wish
Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010)
Hi! Here I am with a Black Mask request 🖤. Could you write something where someone is threatening towards the reader and Roman gets protective about it?
Possessive Roman is great too but I wanna see this man go full protective mode!
You don't have to be sorry, Sweetheart.
Black Mask/Reader, 1.8K words
Request Info || Masterlist || Ko-Fi
Rubbing my hands together like a hungry little racoon being fed. I forgot how feral this man makes me. I took me a while to find my Black Mask head space again, but my Roman is almost always based on an amalgamation of his 60-2000s-ish comic appearances, for reference. Oh and the mask, that does NOT come off. 🖤
Roman doesn't take kindly to an ex employee affronting you, after leaving you alone in a bar. Rated: 18+
CWs: Swearing, blood, spit, threats of violence, actual violence, and some more violence, switchblade, derogatory names: bitch, petnames: sweetheart, failure to wear seatbelts (- please don’t do that irl), protective Roman, somewhat possessive Roman, unhealthy relationship/toxic dynamics.
Please remember: You are stronger than your fears and doubts
Roman Sionis is no stranger to getting his hands dirty. In fact, anyone who’d worked close enough with him, himself included could tell you that Roman thrills in dirty work. However, there are some essential jobs that even Roman won’t touch. When these errands come up, there’s only one place to go to find a runt with morals low enough to get it done.
Noonan’s is the worst bar in Gotham, at least in your opinion. Roman didn’t seem to care much for it either. In fact, the first time you’d accompanied him on a business meeting there he’s told you; “This place is dicey at the best of times. Anyone touches you, says anything to you, so much as fuckin’ looks at you the wrong way, you come get me, alright, Sweetheart? I’ll set 'em straight.” And hadn’t let you leave his side until you’d sworn to come find him at the first sign of trouble.
Usually, you didn’t run into any real problems during the scarce amount of times you’d been there. Roman would conduct his dealings in a function room out back while you tried to keep to yourself. Most people knew who you were, who you were with, and were smart enough to keep to themselves. Nursing a drink in a dark corner typically didn’t draw any more issues than a few side-ways looks. Looks that didn’t seem worth mentioning to Roman. You love him, but he knows how to make a scene, and a scary one at that. It isn’t always worth the fuss. Usually.
It seems somebody was feeling unusually gutsy today. From the moment you’d entered, a familiar face had been watching you. You didn’t know their name, honestly, you likely couldn’t name a single person in this place. But you knew a lot of their faces, Noonan’s always seemed to draw the same crowd of washed-up and bitter ex-goons. Moments after Roman had taken his leave, your watcher approached, tripping over drunken feet until he was close enough to slam his drink onto your table, splashing you with beer in the process.
“Hey, you.” He leans over, pointing a finger in your face, far too close for comfort.
Careful to avoid elevating the situation you remain as still as possible, only moving your eyes in order to get a better look at him. Up close you can see smatterings of scars, and tattoos. He’s clearly tried to pay his dues with a lot of Gotham’s crime bosses and villains. A question mark, a penguin, a black skull.
“Yes, may I help?” You ask cordially, offering a smile.
“You’re Sionis’ bitch ain’t ya?” He slurs as he speaks, spit dripping onto his chin, and ricocheting towards you. “I got a bone to pick with that asshole.”
“Well, I’m afraid he’s busy.” You’d tried to be amicable but now your hospitable tone is gone, replaced with as much nonchalant venom as you can muster. “And his ‘bitch’ doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“I don’t give a shit what you want.” He bangs a fist against the table. Luckily, you’d seen it coming and had had the foresight to grab your drink. But whoever this fucker was, had not. More of the amber liquid spills out onto the table. “That bastard fucked with the wrong guy when he laid me off. Do you know who I am?”
Do you know who he is? No, and you relay that information by staring at him with a pointedly blank glare.
“I said, do you know who I FUCKING AM?” Spit fires from his lips, hitting your face, you feel your already simmering blood begin to boil with each drop. “I’m. Henry. FUCKING Byrne.”
“Good for you, ‘Henry fucking Byrne’ but…” You shouldn’t say it, you know you’ll only provoke him, but he’s on your last nerve. “I. don’t. FUCKING. care.”
“You don’t care, I don’t bleeding care, I don’t care who cares! But he’s gonna care…” Your comment has set him into a long, drunken, incomprehensible ramble, you presume the ‘he’ in reference is Roman, but all other thoughts are cancelled out by the sight of Henry removing a switchblade from his back pocket. As he leans in closer, pointing the blade in your direction, the gravity of the situation sets in. If you don’t act soon, you might just meet your maker in fucking Noonan’s. Tragic. “He’s gonna fucking care when I wreck his bitch.”
Searching for a defence, an exit route, anything, your eyes dart around the bar, quickly locating your salvation.
His pristinely tailored suit highlights him amongst the crowd, the waxy polish of his mask glowing under the dingy low-handling lights. He advances with confident, assertive strides. Instant relief floods through you, followed by a completely different brand of panic.
Relieved to know that you’re almost certainly safe, panicked by the thought of whatever mess he’s about to make.
Despite the tap of Roman’s shoes and your obvious stare, Henry is too wrapped up in his own anger and babblings to notice the impending danger. Like a frantic school of fish being advanced upon by a shark.
He doesn’t deserve your kindness, but you offer it anyway, sliding your chair back, out of his reach as you shout; “Roman, don’t.”
“I just wanna talk.” He spits, holding both hands up, feigning innocence, showing that he’s unarmed. As if he needed a weapon to be dangerous. It’s a lie, you both know it.
Alerted to Roman's presence, Henry begins to turn but is stopped by a leather-clad hand fixing to the soft spot on the back of his head. With rapid force, he’s pushed face-first against the table. Once, twice, three times. Blood is pouring from his nose, mixing with the already murky puddles of spilt beer. Stray chunks of what you can only assume are broken teeth jump with every collision.
Henry’s knife clatters against the floor, narrowly missing your foot. You grab it, holding tight.
“Roman stop.” You say, certain you’re no longer at risk. “He’s had enough!”
Roman's brown eyes bore into you as he slows, gripping tight to your almost attacker's neck, guiding him back into a standing position.
“Do you think you’ve had enough?” He asks through gritted teeth.
“Yes, yes sir. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Henry’s already slurred speech is muffled even more by his own fluids.
“Oh, you’re sorry.” Roman mocks, his neck is red with rage, his mask creaks as he juts his jaw back and forth, a habit you’ve learned is a calming mechanism, something he’d picked up since getting his pacemaker fitted. It isn’t working. “See ‘sorry’ isn’t gonna cut it, you need to be taught a lesson.”
Using his free hand, Roman reached over to you, pulling the switchblade from your clutching fingers.
“Cause you see, when you mess with what’s mine, you mess with me.” Tension hangs thick in the air, every patron is watching, waiting to see how this unfolds, what the infamous Black Mask will do next. “And nobody messes with me.”
“Roman.” You warn, standing and placing your hand on Roman's shoulder, gently tugging at him, urging him to cool off.
“Fine, I’m gonna let you go.” Henry’s face hits the table one last time with a hard smack, followed by the sickening crunch of his own blade being stabbed through his hand, pinning him to the table. “But be grateful, and know that if I see your face anywhere near us again, I won’t be so gentle.”
All eyes remain on you both as you turn to leave. Roman doesn’t care. He firmly wraps a hand around your upper arm, leading you between tables, past the bar, and toward the door.
“Let that be a lesson to all of you.” He chides the onlookers in one last display of warning, before making his exit.
The time passes in a blur as Roman guides you outside, summons the car, herds you inside, and informs the driver to take you home, all the while his hands never leave your form, but once the car starts running time rapidly slows.
You sit together on the back seat, in silence. Roman is not traditionally expressive, for obvious reasons, but you’ve been together long enough to pick up on his emotional tells. He’s rolling his jaw again, and flexing his hand in and out of a fist shape, trying to cool off, trying to prevent himself from snapping at you.
In an effort to help soothe his anger you manoeuvre closer, until your sides brush together. You move to place your hand on his chest, but he grips your wrist, denying you.
“What did I say?” He isn’t yelling, but there’s still an anger to his tone, and a hardness in his eyes that you’re not accustomed to being on the receiving end of. Before you can respond he continues; “I told you, if anything happens, you come get me. What was that?”
“I know, I know, but I’m fine.” You reassure, nudging your arm until he releases you. “I’m sorry, I thought I could handle him, but it just escalated so quickly.”
His look softens, never able to stay mad at you for long. He lets your hand fall against the soft fabric of his blazer. In a quick, practiced motion he lifts your legs up and over his own, positioning you into a cradled position. Removing his gloves before resting one hand on your lower back, and the other on your thigh where he strokes his hand in slow circles.
“You don’t have to be sorry, sweetheart, just promise me, next time you sense trouble, you come to me.”
It would be easy to lie to him, to make an impossible promise, he tells white lies all the time. But you know he values your honesty, he has expectations for you that he does not hold himself to, you’re the light to his darkness. “If I can, I will, I promise, but it’s not always that simple Roman. I’ve got to defend myself sometimes.”
He lets you talk, but he’s shaking his head, disagreeing before you can finish.
“This isn’t up for discussion.” He speaks in the gentlest tone, a voice that is reserved for your ears only. “I know you’ve had to look out for yourself in the past, but you’re mine now, and always. You don’t have to do that anymore.”
Your back hits the plush upholstery of the car seat, contrasting with the hard wood of Roman’s mask pushing against your lips. You welcome the familiar mahogany smell, the taste of spice that invades your senses. Kisses from Roman are never gentle, they’re harsh and cold against your skin, no matter how gently he runs his hands along your body.
When he’s satisfied, he pulls away, just enough to get a good view of your face, to look into your eyes. The coolness of his forehead presses to yours.
“Nobody is more important to me than you.” His voice is sharp and gritty. He holds you just a little bit tighter. “I’d burn this city to the ground before I let anything happen to you.”
I started using comrade instead of ma'am/sir at work and the Oklahoma customers don't seem happy about that lol
But like, it's clear I'm being polite... so they aren't going to violate hospitality and get aggro at me lmao
WE ARE SO (TENTAVELY) BACK
Hoggy-Warty Hogwarts
Grab some popcorn, this fic is long.
Stephanie Brown remembers the day Tim leaves for Hogwarts, the third son to do so. She remembers forcing on a smile, cheering him on, even when her heart ached and she wished for more time. She remembers hugging him carefully, clinging onto the boy who has been her friend since forever.
Stephanie Brown remembers the coldness that followed her everywhere when he left, the way all color seemed to have drain out of her life. She goes through her everyday life numbly, counting down the days until he’ll be back for summer.
Stephanie Brown remembers flying downstairs everyday to check if there’s an owl waiting for her. Sometimes there was, sometimes there wasn’t. The wasn’t’s slowly increased, until she finally accepted that no, he was not going to write. Then her days turned grey, and her eyes turned to stone.
Stephanie Brown remembers running down towards to Drake’s residence when summer begin, only to be told by the sympathetic woman at the door that Tim was going to be staying at his friend’s house over the summer. Just like that, her bright warm sunny days turned cold, and she walked home.
Stephanie Brown remembers her delight when she received her letter for Hogwarts, excitement boiling as she imagines the roof that reflects the outside surroundings, the candlelit halls, the beautiful dorms. Stephanie remembers Diagon Alley and its stores teeming with people. She remembers glimpsing Tim and calls him. He turns, looks at her briefly, and turns back towards his friends, laughing. She stared at him, stunned. Eyes smarting, she lowers her hand and quickly walks away, a shooting pain running through her heart.
She remembers getting Waffles, the owl whose feathers were the perfect golden brown, eyes blinking carefully at her. She thinks she loves him already.
Stephanie Brown remembers shivering with the rest of the first years as they watched the hat sing its song. She briefly scans the room and is surprised to see Tim’s intense blue eyes piercing into her souls from the Ravenclaw table. Heat rises up on her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away, not until Brown is called and she moves forward with a confidence she never possessed. She remembers the hat’s voice, flipping through her brain, asking her questions as it works. She’s holding her breath, hoping for-
Hufflepuff, the hat calls and the table erupts. Applause rings in her ears as she dazedly walks to the table, greeted with shoulder pats and handshakes. She only has eyes for the blue ones across the room, that have disappointment written all over them. Steph can’t help what wonder what he wants from her. Fat Friar tells her to cheer up, at least she was never denied the chance of becoming a cardinal. She stays quiet the entire meal, nibbling on a piece of pie as she watches Tim, smiling as he gulps food down with his friends. She can’t help but feel a little bitter.
Stephanie remembers the first time she bumps into him afterwards, lost in the seemingly endless hallways. He gently grabs onto her elbows to steady her, voice soft when he asks her if she’s okay. He’s looking at her with that look that sends warmth shooting down to her toes. He walks her to her dorm before disappearing, leaving her dazed and confused.
She remembers when she finally makes it onto the Quidditch, a Beater. She flies on her broom, feeling the air rush passed her, hearing the satisfying crack when she swings the bat and it connects with the bludger. For a second, she feels free, away from all the troubles on the ground.
She remembers her first accident from Quidditch, where they’re going against Ravenclaw and Tim flies at a certain angle that the sun hits him perfectly and her breath catches and she’s so-
Pain. Falling. Air rushing by her. Is that screaming? More pain.
Later, she’d get told a bludger had slammed into her ribs and knocked her off her broom, causing her to hit the ground. But now, she drifts away, mind half delusional from pain. She thinks that’s Tim rushing down towards her.
She remembers waking up three days later, informed by Madame Thompkins that her ribs were broken, that she’d successfully almost broken every bone in her body from the fall. She thinks, as she’s drifting under to the send of muffled voice behind the door, that she hears Tim’s voice.
Stephanie remembers waking up, when the sun is still down and the room dark, and seeing his outline by the door, hovering over her. She calls for him, reaching out, and he disappears.
Stephanie remembers the first time she goes to Hogsmeade, feels the butterbeer shoot down to her core, warming her up. She sees the couples walking along the streets, arm in arm, hand in hand. Her mind flashes to Tim, and her heart aches.
Stephanie remembers seeing Tim with that blonde girl, Cassandra, laughing and holding hands. Her heart clenches and rips, shattering like a glass vase dropped from a skyscraper. Tim doesn’t look at her, only ushers Cassandra to a table and pulls her chair out for her. Stephanie tears her eyes away, wondering why her face was getting wet.
Stephanie remembers triumph when Hufflepuff won the house cup for the first time in a century. She thinks they may have taken it a little too far with the celebrations, but can’t find it inside her to care. Joy bumbles inside of her and she throws her arms around everywhere, people in Hufflepuff, people in Slytherin, people in Gryffindor, Tim. He squeezes her tightly, even though his team lost, and he’s so warm she doesn’t want to let go.
Stephanie remembers when she’s at the library, peeking at Tim’s group, when the chair in front of her is pulled out, and a smooth male voice greets her.
That’s how she meets Dean.
She remembers putting her book down, smiling shyly at the boy who has charm oozing out of every pore. She stops paying attention to Tim, and puts all of it onto Dean.
Stephanie remembers when he asks her out to Hogsmeade. She remembers saying yes, heart pounding. He takes her to Three Broomsticks, lavishing her with gifts and praises. She remembers laughing when Tim walks in, his blue eyes widening when he sees her with Dean. She falters when his gaze connects with hers, swirling with emotion yet so cold at the same time. Cold, angry, betrayed… was he upset? She remembers Dean gently prodding her, sending a kind smile over towards her. She remembers when he pulls her closer to him, and then closer, and closer, and closer-
Their lips connect and she thinks she sees Tim turn around and leave but she can’t focus because she’s kissing he’s kissing they’re kissing-
Stephanie remembers Tim confronting her in the hallways, voice harsh as he asks her what she’s doing with Dean. She can’t help but retort, asking why he cared when he’s done so well so far staying out of her life.
Stephanie remembers people screaming when a black robed figure infiltrates their sacred school, raises their wand and slices down. A girl screams, clutching her face. Everyone scatters. The figure turns to her, and she’s paralyzed, mind screaming at her to move. She watches as they raise the wand, closing her eyes.
She remembers opening her eyes when nothing happens, and seeing Tim in front of her, wand raised. The figure is down, body smoking, and Tim is looking at her with that gentle look that breaks down every wall she tried to built between them. He’s gone though, pushed aside by Madame Thompkins as she checks over her. She tries to find him again in the crowd, but he’s gone.
Stephanie remembers Dean staring sadly at her, asking her if her heart truly belonged to him. She opens her mouth, but finds that she can’t answer. Dean only shakes his head and walks away, and Steph understands that this means they’ve broken up. Walking back to her room, she numbly wonders why she isn’t as hurt as she thought she would be.
Stephanie remembers jolting up at the middle of the night when she realizes why she wasn’t heartbroken. Her heart had never belonged to Dean. It had long ago went to the boy with the most beautiful blue eyes she’s ever seen, and black hair dark as the night. It went to the boy she played with as a child, it went to the boy who helped her find her way back to her dorm. It went to the boy who carried her to the infirmary when she was hit by the bludger, and watched over her at night. It belonged to the boy who saved her from that dark figure (who she finds out is a supporter of Black Mask) It belonged to the boy she wanted to go on Hogsmeade dates with, to Three Broomsticks and kiss and play Quidditch with and fly with and dance with and live forever with and-
She loved Tim. She could hardly dare to say it.
She loved Tim. She loved Tim. She loved Tim. She loved Tim.
I love him, she whispers, testing the words out. I love him I love him I love him.
Giddy, she goes to bed with a smile on her face.
Stephanie remembers sitting at Three Broomsticks when a hand rests on her shoulder and Tim sits down, and her hearts starts racing because his hair his eyes his smile-
Hi, he says with a smile that sends the butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy. She grins back at him and there’s a new warmth that isn’t from the butterbeer. He compliments her hair, she comments on his eyes. He talks of riddles needed to make it into the Ravenclaw dorm, she talks about the cosy, round room that makes up the Hufflepuff common room. Watching him enthusiastically chatter about his newest accomplishment in Transfiguration (which, for some odd reason, is his favorite class. She has no idea why, Charms is so much better), she thinks she can get used to this.
They’re walking past Shrieking Shack when he reaches out and grabs her hand, and the flush on her cheeks is mirrored on his face. They’re walking past Honeydukes when he gives her his scarf, carefully wrapping it around her with an intensity in his eyes that has her unable to tear her eyes away. They’re back at Hogwarts when she leans up and kisses him on his cheek before fleeing inside her dorm, cheeks flaming.
She remembers the library, the steady breathing, peaceful murmuring of voices. She smiles at Tim, sitting in front of her, trying to explain the mechanisms of some wand movement. He flicks his wand and writes his name in the air. She frowns slightly and mimics his action, drawing a ’T’ before it fizzes out. He comes around the table, wraps his hand around hers, and adjusts her grip. Slowly, they write “Tim” in the air, his hand warm around hers. Her head is buzzing from his proximity, chest pressed against her back, head resting on her shoulder. He’s too close and not close enough, she thinks, and freezes when he lightly presses his lips against her cheek before pulling away. A grins breaks out and she wants to yank him in and kiss him senseless. She licks her lips and he looks away.
Stephanie Brown remembers when Black Mask invaded her haven, invaded Hogwarts. She remembers walking to the door and seeing the daunting figure in black, with his eerie mask and gaunt figure. She remembers him raising his wand at the young first-years at the doorway. She remembers jerking forward, raising her wand, and telling him defiantly that he will enter over her dead body, shooing the children in to warn the castle.
Stephanie remembers more pain than she’s ever known before, spell after spell hitting her while she tries her best to keep them at bay. Stephanie Brown remembers searing pain shredding her body as the Black Mask’s cutting spell slams right through her shield and hits her, the tipping point in the battle. She remembers the barrage of spells hitting her over and over again, and she wonders where the backup was.
She remembers Black Mask carefully aiming his wand at her, a red flash, and she falls. Stephanie remembers the resolve running through her, that she was going to keep on fighting. She remembers her trembling arms, remembers wishing she told Tim how she felt. Stephanie remembers when she finally accepted that she was going to die, that no backup was coming, that she still must fight because she can’t let the Black Mask in, even as his followers spread out.
Stephanie remembers when Black Mask got tired of playing with her, and he starts to prepare for the killing curse. Stephanie remembers thinking this is it, her broken wand dangling in her hand. She remembers hearing voices shouting, remembers seeing a brilliant green light flash at her.
She remembers warm arms wrapping around her, yanking her out of the way. She remembers lying on the ground, dazed as blue eyes, familiar yet unfamiliar, stare down worriedly at her. His mouth is moving, telling her something that she can’t hear. She thinks he’s telling her to hold on, or maybe pleading her to stay. She thinks she loves him so much, and curls her fingers around his hand. She’s glad she gets to see him before she dies.
Stephanie Brown remembers waking up to pain and a black haired boy sleeping on the chair next to her. He’s resting against his arms, and she thinks that he is the most beautiful person she’s ever seen.
She remembers when he wakes up, blue eyes that she adored so much staring into her. He says nothing, just raises his hand and presses it against her face and she realizes she’s crying, tears leaking out from her eyes. She’s so thankful she’s alive, so thankful Hogwarts is standing, so thankful Tim is here with her. Steph flings her arms around Tim and starts sobbing.
Stephanie remembers when she is finally dispatched from the infirmary. Tim hasn’t been back since the first day, and she’s determined to let him know how she feels. She finds him in the owlery, watching the birds fly in and out. He doesn’t turn around when she walks in.
She starts saying something, except he turns around and he’s crying and she’s just standing there and he’s looking at her like she’s going to disappear and she tells him she’s not and he looks at her still like she’s going to leave and-
He tells her how scared he was, that she would die. He let everything rush out, his apologies for ignoring her in the beginning, years ago, his wish for her to be in Ravenclaw, his panic when she had gotten injured from Quidditch, how he tried to move on from her but couldn’t, his pulsing fear when that dark figure had pointed the wand at her, how wonderful she felt in his arms, his growing desire for her as time went by, his jealousy when he realized he waited too long and she was taken, his heart racing when she smiles, his hope when he hears that she and Dean had broken up, his horror when he sees Black Mask point that wand at her, her battered and injured body, his-
Tim, she says, cutting him off. Get to the point.
He gets up and walks towards her and her heart’s racing. He stops when he’s right in front of her and he’s looking down at her and she’s looking up at him and he sends her this look that makes her feel butterflies.
Stephanie, he says. I love you.
Then he leans down and she reaches up and they meet halfway, two beings merging into one.
That was so fucked up, give me more or I will die
Wanna be his young girlfriend so bad
★ Daddy's pornstar ★
Black Mask/Wayne!Reader, 4.8K AN: Based on, (but not 1:1) on this ask! It just activated something in my brain and I had to put it into words. I could kiss you anon! FYI, he's (partly) maskless in this one, just because I felt like shaking things up a bit. Warnings: Roman being absolutely foul, he’s a warning all of his own. Swearing, blackmail, dub-con, insults/name-calling, spit, ass to mouth but barely, spanking, choking, verbal degradation, unprotected sex, manipulation, lying, gratuitous daddy kink. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Excerpt: “Don’t look so glum, doll. You’re gorgeous.” Roman's gravelly voice is thick with conceitedness. More than usual. He’s seated just to the side of the camera, smiling at you like he’s the cat and you’re the cream between puffs of a cigarette. His eyes shamelessly rake across your body. “If you ever wanted to get out from your father’s shadow, you could make a killing in the adult industry.” “Please, I don’t want to talk about him right now.” You don’t even want to think about him. Not just because it’s a figurative boner killer, but because he’d be so angry, so disappointed in you and your actions. You stare at the blinking red light of the camera as you try not to recall the destructive series of events that had led you here. The reckless, downright stupid behaviour that had handed Roman the ammunition to bend you to his will. “Alright. I’ll be your daddy tonight.”
Selina had told you once, after helping your father take down an infamous Gotham-based trafficking ring that the little spiel adult actors give at the beginning of pornos was often complete bullshit. When Cherry Rose or Missy Sin said, “I’m of sound body and mind, and I consent to everything I’m about to do.” they were fucking themselves, metaphorically and literally. That as soon as those words were caught on tape, sketchy cast and crews could use it as a free pass to do whatever they wanted to those performers without repercussions.
That fact, while upsetting, hadn’t really solidified in your head until you were staring down the lens of a Panasonic camcorder, barely faking a smile as you made the very same speech, wondering how many pornstars had been blackmailed or otherwise under duress from the start.
“Don’t look so glum, doll. You’re gorgeous.” Roman's gravelly voice is thick with conceitedness. More than usual. He’s seated just to the side of the camera, smiling at you like he’s the cat and you’re the cream between puffs of a cigarette. His eyes shamelessly rake across your body. It’s not clear if he’s appreciative of you in general or of the sheer, feather-hemmed lingerie he’d picked out for you. It’s exactly the kind of thing you’d expect to find on the body of an heiress gone wild in the pages of an 80s Playboy magazine; cute but still a humiliating mockery of the rich kid archetype the media so loves to sexualise. From the shade of pink that compliments your skin tone perfectly, to the way it tastefully clashes with the bedspread, you're pretty certain Roman has put a lot of thought and planning into this whole production. “If you ever wanted to get out from your father’s shadow, you could make a killing in the adult industry.”
“Please, I don’t want to talk about him right now.” You don’t even want to think about him. Not just because it’s a figurative boner killer, but because he’d be so angry, so disappointed in you and your actions. You stare at the blinking red light of the camera as you try not to recall the destructive series of events that had led you here. The reckless, downright stupid behaviour that had handed Roman the ammunition to bend you to his will.
“Alright.” His smile twists then, into something wicked and you will the heat growing in your stomach to cool. “I’ll be your daddy tonight.”
The suggestion simultaneously makes your skin crawl, and your hair stand on edge. You fight the lurch in your chest by scrunching up your face and glowering at his mask on the bedside table. It’s easier to be repelled by him when he’s Black Mask. He’s not really a person, he’s a symbol, a deity to all that’s wrong with Gotham and its seedy underworld. He laughs aloud, low and throaty, clearly enjoying your visible discomfort. God, you hate him. You hate his laugh. You hate his olive skin. His empty black eyes, his salt and pepper hair, the way he smells so good like sugar and spice and smoke. You hate the way he commands a room simply by being in it. But apparently not all of your body had gotten the memo.
“Agreed?” He says sarcastically, the implication that you don’t really get a choice hangs thick in the air and you nod in reply until he fakes a cough to draw your attention back to him. “Out loud, for the camera.”
“Yes…” He quirks a brow at you, eyes fixated on the shake of your breasts as you attempt to steady your breathing. The name feels wrong on your lips, you haven’t even called your own father Daddy since you were a little girl, but you manage to bite it out. “Daddy.”
“Good girl.” It shouldn’t, but the way he drawls the pet-name makes you feel flushed. “Well, what are you waiting for? We’re rolling.”
For the first time since you’d met him here, you look at him dead on, staring dumbly, hoping for at least a little direction. You’d never done this sort of thing before; you didn’t know where to begin. And you certainly didn’t want to perform so badly that he made it an excuse to have you do it all over again. He stares back at you, head tilted, eyes wide and hungry, watching you expectantly.
“Touch yourself.” He clarifies impatiently. “Play with your tits, finger you pussy, whatever you do when you’re lying in bed alone at night, wishing somebody would fuck you the way you need.”
But you don’t want to be fucked, at least that’s the story you’re feeding yourself. You half gesture to your nether regions as you whisper. “But I’m not wet yet.”
“It’s a good thing you’re pretty, cause you’re not very bright, are you?” He states sharply, straightening his posture and biting his tongue in annoyance as he stubs out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. His patronising should piss you off, but instead you’re embarrassed. You wish you’d had something to drink before coming here. At least then you could blame your simmering arousal for his mistreatment of you on being tipsy. “Come here.”
He grabs onto your wrist, standing to tower over you as his gloved hands tug you across the bed. Much to your shock, he spit down onto your open palm, amusement palpable as he watches your shocked face.
“What’s the matter? Think you’re too good for my spit?”
“No.” You do. You are. However, ‘no’ instinctively felt like the right thing to say.
“No? Good.” The grin on Roman’s face is pure malice, it makes your heart drop and your knees weak. “Open your mouth for me.”
When you take too long prying your dried lips apart, Roman releases your wrists in favour of gripping the back of your head, yanking you back until your mouth falls open to cry out in pain. Before you know it’s happening you feel a glob of spit hit your tongue, and suddenly your bodies desire for him finally wins. You don’t need lube anymore, your folds growing slicker with each second sat under his burning gaze. The shame of knowing he caught it all up close and personal on film only fuelling the fire in your belly. Your whole body practically boils at your indigent actions as you close your mouth and swallow.
“Very good girl.” Roman offers his approval as he releases you, falling back to his position beside the camera.
“Thank you, Daddy.” You’re not sure where the sudden bravery comes from, but you reply cutely as you lay back on the bed once more, spreading your legs and showing the camera how your newfound wetness has started to seep through the delicate fabric.
“Beautiful.” Roman coos, and it’s the most genuine sounding thing he’s ever said to you. The confusing mix of pride and self-loathing has you grunting in annoyance as you push your fingers under your waist band and begin to run your fingers between your folds, collecting moisture from your leaking entrance and rubbing it against your sensitive clit.
You’ve masturbated many times before, but you’ve never been able to cum from your own hands alone. Now seems a bad time to bring this up, so you channel all your energy into it, building as much friction as you can with your hands and focusing your mind on how good you feel right now. Multiple times Roman has to whistle at you, drawing your attention away from the ceiling and back to the camera as you attempt to force your climax. Each time he looks less entertained by your wandering eyes, until eventually you look over at him only to be greeted by the sight of his penis. Immediately you look away once more, gawking down the lens of the camera, no doubt looking flustered and debauched.
“It’s okay baby, you can look at it.” It’s not really a suggestion, so much as an order. Even when he’s speaking softly, he sounds dangerous, so you angle your head to the side. Watching as he idly pumps away, matching your own strokes with a now ungloved hand. “Like what you see?”
A part of you had been hoping it would be smaller, uglier, something to turn your nose up at, but by all accounts, Roman Sionis has a fucking beautiful cock. Something else you could hate him for. It’s straight, cut, a few shades darker than the rest of his skin, and just big enough to stretch you out in all the right places if you sunk low enough to let him fuck you. A thought that’s becoming more and more appealing with every brush to you heated core.
“Yes.” You strain to form words, joints twitching as you continue to play with your oversensitive, under-climaxed cunt. “Your dick is… nice.”
He chuckles at you, again. While admittedly it was not a good word choice, his constant amusement really makes it difficult to ignore the fact that this is all fun and games to him. You’re a joke, a pawn in his agenda. Damn if the sight of him, leaning back, nonchalantly jerking off over your display doesn’t make your toes curl. But it’s still not enough.
“If you hurry up and cream those pretty panties, I‘ll let you play with it?” You surprise him, and yourself by dramatically kicking your feet against the mattress.
“I can’t!” It comes out petulant and needy. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve never been able to do it myself.”
His eyes narrow, head rolling from side to side as he processes your predicament and considers his next move.
“Sit up and look into the camera.” He eventually instructs, standing up himself to get a good look at you through the viewfinder. “Ask daddy real nicely to help you cum, and I might fuck you with my fingers.”
You can feel his eyes glowering into you through the camera as you hesitate. Deliberating whether you’re really going to beg Black Mask to get you off as you follow his command. The moment your fingers seize movement you feel lost. Yes. If it’s the only way to sooth your desires, then yes, you’re going to swallow your pride and beg him.
“Please daddy.” His eyes don’t leave the screen as he bites down on the tip of his remaining glove to remove it, nor when he loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt. “I need you, please make me cum.”
“I think you can do better.” His hard-on would disagree, but you’re in no position to point that out. “Roll over, put your ass up for the camera and keep begging for me baby.”
Somehow, having your entire sex front and centre for the camera, hardly concealed by your see-through panties feels a thousand times more exposing than anything you’ve done do far.
“Please.” Your voice grows smaller, but Roman is having none of it.
“Louder.”
“Please fill me with your finger, Daddy.” You start again, willing yourself to speak as loudly as possible. Calling him daddy feels less and less forced each time it rolls off your tongue. “Please, please, please. I’ll do anything.”
Even in your current state, the irony of your last statement isn’t lost on you. Regardless, it has the desired effect. You wait with bated breath, listening to each footfall as Roman deliberately drags his feet across the carpet until he’s stood behind you, completely out of the cameras view you presume but for his hands which come up to cup your ass. You can’t help but moan as he digs his nails into the fat of your cheeks and makes of show of jiggling them.
“Barely even touched you and you’re already cryin’ out like you’re in heat.” He comments, smug as he hooks his fingers in your underwear and works them down your thighs. He teases you by running his pointer finger lightly across your slit, void of any pressure, before delivering an unexpected slap to your cheek. Your legs flinch, another pathetic whine escaping you in reaction, but ultimately it only adds to your pent-up frustration. Only makes you want him more. “You act so prim and proper, but I always knew what you were.”
“What- ” Your question is silenced as Roman finally sinks two fingers between your pussylips, lazily brushing them against your clit in circular motions. It already feels so much better than you’d accomplished alone. You’re so caught up in the feeling that you no longer care about your rapidly deteriorating dignity when he uses his thumbs to pull apart your lips, showing off your dripping entrance, wolf-whistling as he gives the camera the money shot.
“So fuckin’ wet.” Despite his statement, Roman hawks another bead of spit onto it before sliding two more fingers in without resistance. “D’you know what this is?”
“It’s my pussy, daddy.” You answer earnestly, eyes rolling back at the feel of him plunging inside you.
“That’s right baby.” He purrs. “Your pussy. The pussy of a cock hungry slut.”
“Or maybe it’s mine.” He continues, unapologetically shoving his long fingers in and out of your cunt at a demanding pace. All the while his other hand strokes your clit. The wet squelch that emanates with every touch makes you feel so lewd. You squeeze your eyes shut, holding back hot tears of humiliation and desperation as Roman easily brings you closer and closer to the edge. “Maybe I’ll claim it. Maybe I’ll put my nice dick in there and pump you full of daddy’s cum.”
“Fuck!” You can’t think straight, the only thing on your mind is how fucking good this feels. How much better it would feel to have Roman’s cock pulsing inside you. A damp slapping sound begins to ring throughout the room. You realise quickly that it’s your slit, smacking against Romans hands as you subconsciously rock back onto them, matching his rhythm.
“Is that what you want baby? D’you want to give daddy your pussy?” He growls, perfectly in time with the eruption of your orgasm.
“Yes, it’s your pussy, Daddy. Take it, take my pussy.” The words roll off your tongue completely uninhibited. You’ve no capacity to censor yourself, to think for yourself as shockwaves roll through every vein and nerve of your body. “I want your cock, Roman. I want your cum. Please ruin me.”
Roman lets you ride it out, holding still while you grind against him until you come to a complete stop, quietly panting into the comforter until he’s satisfied that you’re done. Then before you know what’s happening, he rips his hands back and delivers a series of rapid strikes to your ass. Harder than the previous one, sure to leave a mark.
“What’s. My. Name. Bitch?” He bites between each hit. “Whose. Your. Fuckin’. Daddy?”
The sudden change in pace has you reeling and scrambling to pull away, but Roman follows until you surrender. “Daddy! You’re my daddy!”
“And don’t you fuckin forget it.” It’s absolutely an order, bitter and laced with scathing levels supressed rage. A reminder of who he is and that he’s calling the shots right now. “Get up here.”
As soon as you’re in range to be gripped without roaming too far into frame, Roman locks his hands around you, manhandling you until your back is to his chest. His hand is around your throat, squeezing just tight enough to restrict but not stop your breathing as he threads a finger between your ass cheeks, poking at the rim of your hole. For a second, he cinches his grip on your neck, causing another tear to roll down your face, adding another streak of mascara to the dried marks from your finger fucking.
“Call my name one more time baby, and I won’t just ruin your pussy.” To emphasis his point, he bullies the tip of his finger inside, grinning when you whinge at the dry, hot pain. “And trust me, no amount of spit is gonna help you then. Got it?”
“Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry.” He pulls his fingers back from your ass, your sigh of relief cut off by his stiffening grip on your windpipe once more. Instead, you let out a pathetic mix of sputtering and moaning. You deliberately try to stay limp for him, obedient, but when he brings the fingers he’d been fucking you with to your mouth your muscles automatically tense. His warm digits pass your lips, and he brushes his musty fingers on your tongue, forcing you to taste the bittersweetness of both holes. You instinctively try to protest but all that comes out again is weak gasp and strings of drool.
“You like how you taste?” He mocks. “Like being choked?”
If you say yes, he might do it more. If you say no, he’ll definitely do it more, so you hedge your bets and nod for him, coughing out a sad little “yes” around his finger.
“Fuckin’ whore.” That infuriating laugh, again. This time more to himself than to you as he releases your neck and steps away from the bed. He surveys you for a moment, examining your position on the bed as you gasp for air before grabbing the tripod and moving it further down the bed.
“Get on your hands and knee, facing the camera this time.” Once you’ve caught your breath, you reposition yourself as instructed. Weary eyes watching as Roman retrieves his mask from the nightstand. The cosmetic red eyes stare you down as he crosses the room to stand behind you. The bed dips under his weight and your hazy brain finally clicks why he’d been so pissed at you for using his name. It’s not just a humiliation thing. He intended from the beginning to remain anonymous, even if the video was solely for himself. Everybody knew Roman was Black Mask, but nobody could irrefutably prove it, a technicality that kept him out of prison.
The train of thought however is lost when Roman barks out his next instruction. “Take the bra off.”
You're way passed modesty at this point. Frankly, you're relieved to be rid of the plasticky faux feathers digging into your cleavage.
If your bare and open core had been the money shot, this would be the clickbait. A Wayne Scion stripped naked and practically presenting herself for one of Gotham's most notorious crime lords. Sure, nobody could confirm it was him, but between the voice, the suit, and the mask, it was obvious.
You’re grateful when Roman doesn’t spend much time admiring or groping at your breasts, but that gratitude is quickly swallowed by torment when he starts repeatedly thrusts his shaft into your slit, denying your cunt in favour of teasing your clit. The sensation causes you to clench around nothing. Having barely come down from your previous orgasm, your body greedily wants more.
“You should know by now what I want to hear.” Roman croons, securing a hand on your waist to keep you still as he drags the tip of his cock between your folds. He wants you to plead, and at this point you'd do anything to finally feel him inside you. “Don’t make me ask you for it.”
“Please, Daddy.” Clearly also feeling eager, Roman is quick to line himself up with your entrance, pushing in just deep enough to part your labia, but withholding any satisfaction. You let out a salacious moan, nonetheless. “Please fuck my cock hungry pussy!”
“Oh, I’m not just gonna fuck it, baby.” His cock plunges into you without resistance. He’s not overtly thick, but your walls immediately start spasming and stretching around him, hugging him tightly in all the right places. Mouth and pussy drooling for him in an instant as he begins ramming in and out of you, allowing you no time to adjust. It hurts like hell for a few moments, but the pain is so worth the pleasure. “I’m gonna ruin it. That’s what you wanted, right? Want me to pound this filthy fuckin’ cunt like nobody else ever has. You're not gonna want anyone else by the time I’m done with you.”
Every nasty word out of his mouth feels like a threat, it only adds to the sex drunk haze that fogs your mind, and he just keeps snarling. For the first time in your tenuous relationship, you hope he never shuts the fuck up.
“You fuckin’ love it.” He snaps, gripping the back of your neck to keep your head up, all the while slamming into you at a painful pace, knocking the wind out of you as you sob for the camera. “Say it. Say you fucking love being a helpless whore, split open on Daddy dick.”
Any words out of your mouth at this point are completely unintelligible at best. Broken, feeble cries at worst. You’re not even sure what you’re trying to say. Eventually you manage to muster a small “Please… please I want…”, relying on Roman’s strength as you reach for your clit. You’re so damn close, you just need that little push. “Want to cum.”
To his credit, Roman knows exactly what you’re asking for, batting your uselessly pawing hands out of the way so he can rub at your tender bud in short teasing motions, making you arch your back into him.
“You’ll cum when I cum.”
“C-cum in me.” Once again, your voice is barely a whisper, strangled by your tensing muscles, shaken with every snap of Romans hips as you selfishly beg for his release so that he’ll give you your own. “Fill my whore pussy, please, daddy.”
Sick, loud, slapping echoes through the room as Roman hammers into you, using your body to chase his orgasm in bruising, frenzied strokes. His body shudders, breath growing hoarse as he finds it. The combined feel of fingers kneading your clit, and the heat of his seed releasing inside your guts has you tumbling straight after him.
“Take it.” The command isn’t necessary, your walls are milking him for all he’s got as your body trembles beneath him, ecstasy making every aching bone feel like putty as he ladens your sex with his seed. He just loves the sound of his own voice. “Take all of it you greedy little bitch.”
Roman’s breathing is erratic. He stays put, dick growing soft inside you for a long time as he steadies himself. As your high begins to falter you start to process the reality of what you’ve just done. Fortunately, you can find solace in the fact that it’s over.
To nobodies’ surprise, Roman is the first to talk. Finding his voice again as he finally pulls out of you.
“I was serious you know.” A chill runs along your back as he skims a finger between your swollen folds, collecting the excess of his cum. “I've got some live-in cam models over in Tail’s End. You’ve got the potential to make it big, doll.”
“No thanks.” Despite your deadpan, when he guilds your weak body up and shoves his sticky fingers in your face, you open wide, unashamedly cleaning every speck until he retracts them. You watch as he holds them up to the light, inspecting your work. Face now hidden behind his fearsome mask, you’ve no idea what he might be thinking which is probably his intent.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs, your body falling forward at the sudden weight displacement as he stands. Your legs are still like jelly, so you resolve not to move until they’re steady or he’s gone. Which ever happens first.
“I gotta head out in a minute, you know your way to the door, right?” You only nod. Quickly coming down from your post-orgasm high whilst you watch Roman making himself presentable again. Well, mostly presentable. He re-buttons his shirt, straightens his tie, and redons his gloves. There is however a wet patch on his crotch, cause by you no doubt. Dependant on where he’s going, you wouldn’t put it past him to leave it on display so he can brag about his latest lay. “Oh, some of Penguins boys are trying to move in on The Basin. Be careful if you're passing that way.”
“Why?” He got what he wanted from you. What should he care what happens to you know? Tim is currently building a case on Cobblepot. So, the only part of that statement you care about is how you’re going to feed that intel to him without revealing your source.
“I don’t want that creature puttin’ his hand on what’s mine.” What’s his? He says it so factually it’s almost laughable. Sure, he’d been a good fuck, but that wasn’t enough to keep you coming back to him. Cocky bastard.
Despite your derision, you nod, humouring him. The sooner he leaves, the better. Then you’ll rarely have to see him again. “Right.”
“Don’t clean up.” He rattles off another demands, now focused on the camera. His hands work quickly, turning it off and ejecting the memory card so fast it must be muscle memory. He’s done this sort of thing before. How many others had he extorted like this? When the memory card is tucked safely away in his wallet, Roman scoops the discarded panties from the floor, pressing them to his wooden nose and sniffing before tossing them over to you. “Put those back on. I want you to stink of your own arousal all the way home. Want you to feel all that cum inside you and know who put it there.”
You can’t hold your contempt back any longer at this point. Glaring, you scoff at him. “I’ll pass.”
“I don't think you understand the nature of our arrangement.” He snarls back. You were so close to being rid of him but now he’s doubling back to you. The permanent leer of his masks red eyes staring you down as he leans close to your supine form. “You don't get to pass.”
“My debt to you is paid.” You spit. When you make to sit up his gloved hand latches onto your jaw, muffling your speech as you try to argue with him. “Tonight was me getting straight with you.”
“Thats right.” His faux-soft tone contrasts with the demeaning drip of spit he aims onto your cheek. In retaliation you attempt to pull away, digging your nails into the thick fabric of his suit jacket to no avail. “I’ll make sure nobody in Gotham, especially that bitchboy father of yours ever finds out about your little incident.”
Rubbing in his control over you, Roman begins massaging his saliva into your skin. Seemingly trying to clean up your smudged make-up, no doubt purposefully smearing it further around your face.
“But unless you want the contents of our little home video on the homepage of every tabloid and gossip site in the country, you'll keep doing as I say.”
The reality of the situation kicks in, and suddenly you do feel like a little girl. Roman Sionis had tricked you, he’s never intended to make things even. From the moment he’d ‘requested’ a meeting, he’d been planning on keeping you under his thumb and like the naïve child you were, and you’d fell for it, every step of the way.
“You promised nobody would ever see it.” Your voice is small and pitiful, even to you. No doubt Roman is grinning like a fat-cat beneath his veneer.
“And if you make a liar out of me, neither of us is going to be happy.” You’re not proud of the tears the follow, releasing Roman’s arm in favour of dabbing at your eyes. Breathing deeply, you try to stop from blubbering. You’re so angry, but you don’t have the energy to fight. “Now you're getting it.”
You sit stiffly as Roman’s leather clad hand wander your face. Patting and pinching your cheeks in mock affection.
“This is a cute look. Bet your brother's fawn all over it. Personally, I just wanna stick my dick between those pouty lips.” His words sting, they make your stomach nauseous. Your brothers would fly of the handle if they could see you know. Jason in particular would probably be more pissed than your father.
Eventually Roman releases you, and you hastily stand to start redressing yourself, but as you do his cum begins to trickle out from your still gaping cunt, and you almost retch at the feeling.
“This must be hard for you. Tell you what, why don't you stay here? Avoid the family until you've come to terms.” Continuing to parody genuine tenderness, Roman catches your wavering body and brings you close, gently wrapping you up in his arms. You can’t deny it feels nice, his warmth, his smell. Your fickle centre betrays you, growing wet once more, even as the rest of your body wants to curl up and die from your foolishness. “I've got some business to attend to, but I’ll be back in a few hours. Get some rest, and when you're good and ready we’ll test how much of daddy’s cock you can take down your throat before you start choking?”
Keep Me Forever ♥︎
“I will get you back. Might not be today, might not be any time soon. Hell, if it takes years, I will have you again.”
Black Mask/Reader, 2.3K Warnings: Non-explicit non-con, spiking, alcohol consumption, mild threats of violence. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT AN: This senario has been floating around in my head for a few days, and then I was struck by the writing bug in the middle of the night and just had to turn it into something. Side note: Story contains maskless Roman.
Roman has intentionally been dragging his feet with the divorce proceedings. Which is why you're outright shocked when you find him lingering outside your place of work one morning.
His commitment to maintain even a shred of control over you is almost impressive, you wish he’d shown that kind of adherence to mending your marriage before it was too late. The purposeful delay in signing the paperwork is the latest in a string of stunts to prevent the inevitable. Predictably it had started a lot more confrontationally, with threats of, and often actual acts of violence and criminal damage. He’d had people following you, he’d slandered your name across town, any dirty, underhanded tactic you could think of, he’d tried it. That had been difficult to handle for certain, but his newest strategy of outright ignoring the issue at hand came with its own issues.
Frightful that he's done a 180 and is here to yell and scream and demand you come home again, you spend a long time watching him from afar until you can't put it off any longer without being late for your shift.
“Roman you had better-” You’re disorientated when he greets you with a smile. Not just any smile. A round-cheeked, soft-eyed smile, the kind he used to give you when you'd first fallen for each other.
He pulls you into a hug and holds your face as he tells you that you look good, that he's missed you. “No, not like that, just, uh, yeah…”
There's an endearingly nervous energy to him that you haven't seen in years. He sure knows how to keep you guessing.
“Look, I'm sorry I dropped in on you like this.” His gloved hands gently squeeze yours, holding them against his chest. His dark eyes gaze at you through wispy lashes that you've always admired, if not envied. You've missed calm, close moments like this. “I want to take you out for dinner.”
When you wince, he squeezes you a little harder.
“No, no, no. It's not like that. Please, let me take you out, my treat and we’ll get this whole divorce thing straightened out, okay? I promise.”
Against your better judgement, you bite. As amiable as he’s being, you're certain there’s an ulterior motive at play.
The next night he sends a town car to pick you up, and you're all kinds of rueful when it pulls up outside the lions den; The Riverside condo Roman and you had shared for the majority of your relationship.
“I know, I know, I swear I didn't plan this.” He chuckles playfully when you pull him up on it. He’s dressed casually, or as casual as Roman gets in slacks, a linen button-down, and a novelty apron you’d bought him years ago. As he pulls out your chair and pours your drink you note that he’s removed his gloves and is still wearing his wedding ring. “I just thought it might be nice to stay in. I made your favourite, come on, you can't be mad at that can you?”
No, you suppose not, but you can be mad when he proceeds to spend the next few hours distracting from the dinner's intended subject in favour of trying to wistfully remind you about the good times you've shared, or cooing over how good you look. For all his flaws, Roman is very charming when he wants to be. Between the company, the food, and the drinks, it’s not an unpleasant night, but a trip down memory lane and honeyed flattery is not what you’re here for.
“Look, it's clear you have no intention of actually talking about our separation.” You finally crack over dessert, throwing in your napkin when he attempts to hold your hand.
“Well excuse the fuck outta me for tryina’ mend the bridge you burned.” His skin is growing hot, muscles taut as an all too familiar fury rises to the surface. There's the Roman you served papers too. So typical of him to blame you. To start seeing red the moment you refuse to be twisted around his little finger.
“Don’t lie.” You cross your arms. “You're not trying to make reparations; you're trying to kiss and make up!”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Yes.” No sooner does the word leave your mouth when he grips the table, lifting it to hurl in anger.
You dart up as well, instinctively grabbing for the plates and cutlery as it topples toward you. Roman’s red wine hits your chest, the sudden wetness causing you to gasp and all of a sudden, the table is back on its legs.
The embrace he wraps you in this time is much more forceful. One arm loops around your back and holds you in place by the elbow while he pats you down with tissues. A purveyor of white suits, Roman knows how to dab at a wine stain, and this is not the correct method. He's just moving it around, likely using it as an excuse to grope the body he's been missing as he murmurs through gritted teeth.
“It's okay, I got it, I got it. Stop fuckin’ squirming, let me help you.”
Eventually, you surrender, growing limp in his arms to get it over with. It's obvious he's taken aback by your sudden compliance but clearly, he appreciates it as evidenced by the smirk that lines his lips by the time he's done.
“I wouldn't have hurt you.” He says quietly, leaning his body close to yours.
“I know.” You lie, too tired of this whole show to fight.
His fingers are too familiar, too intimate as he caresses your jawline, taking advantage of your passivity. His own jaw grows tight when you turn your head to dodge the kiss he tries for.
“I should go.” At your words he lightens his grip, not enough to let you go, but enough for him to rub his hands up and down your back, trying and oddly succeeding to comfort you.
“Don't go yet, please.” Roman doesn't beg, but this might be the closest he's ever come. “Your wardrobe is still full. Get changed, I’ll pour us fresh drinks and we’ll… we’ll talk about the divorce.”
That chestnut is growing old, but if it means never coming back here again, you're willing to take a chance.
An attempt has been made to clean things up from whatever chaos Roman had caused after you left, but your old walk-in wardrobe is barely recognisable. The mirrors are all but gone, empty frames and missed shards litter the walls and floor. Your vanity chair lays on its side, missing all but one leg. About half of the clothes you’d left behind, the pieces that Roman had curated for you have been ripped or discarded on the floor.
It takes a while but eventually, you find something comfortable and undamaged to wear.
With no mirrors to check your reflection in, you detour into your old bedroom, glancing at yourself only briefly before you spot something that causes a funny feeling in your gut. On the bedside table, your bedside table is a singular hoop earring and a handful of hair ties, none of which belong to you.
The green monster can be a funny devil, it grabs you when you least expect it. This doesn't change your feelings, you have no intention of running back to Roman, to ‘reclaim’ him, but the thought of another woman in this room, in his arms, on your side of the bed makes your chest ache. So much so that you find yourself settling on the comforter, toying with the soft fabric you’d picked out as you attempt to process the situation.
You must be gone for a while because Roman comes looking for you. Other than “Ah! There you are.” He doesn't say anything, just hands you a champagne flute and sits beside you in silence until you point to the foreign objects that litter your former space.
“Oh, erm.” He furrows his brows as he thinks hard. “Probably Candy or maybe Alexa.”
He picks up the earring, turning it over between his lithe fingers. “I think it might even be Francie… or was it Franny? Something with an F.”
You're not sure if it disgusts you that there's been so many women, all evidently interchangeable to him, or pleases you that none seem to have left an impression. A perplexing amalgamation of both, amongst other things.
To ward off the flurry of complex emotions you down the drink in your hand, chugging it all back in one go. The sharp taste and harsh bubbles that scratch your throat on the way down cause you to purse your lips and scrunch your eyes closed.
Roman laughs at your funny face, not unkindly. It feels earnest, in ways he hadn't expressed in a long time. Affectionate even and you can't help giggling in tandem. The longer it goes on, the more flushed you start to feel. A strange warmth stemming from your stomach spreads throughout your body, making you feel light and giddy.
Roman draws closer and you sigh at his musk. You hadn't noticed earlier but he's wearing the aftershave you'd always fawned over whenever he’d worn it while you were together.
“You’re as beautiful as the day we meet.” You maybe-kinda-sorta recall him using that line earlier over dinner, but it makes you weak regardless. Determined not to cave however, you shake your head, ignoring how your cheeks feel hot. Tentatively he takes your face in his hands and guides you to look at him. “No matter how you try to deny it, you always were, and always will be mine.”
The weight in your chest is gone, replaced by the racing of your heart.
Obviously, you'd always thought he was handsome. The best-looking man you'd ever met, but from this angle, this close he’s really… wow.
You do say something in response, but you can hardly remember what.
Lightheaded, you fall back on the bed under the force of Roman’s lips on yours. As he presses you deeper into the sheets with his weight something cold clinks onto your neck, causing you to hiss into the fervid kiss. Roman pulls back to check on you, as he sits up the cold retracts with him. A gold chain has slipped out from beneath his shirt, dangling between your bodies. In lieu of a pendant, the wedding and engagement bands you’d returned to him hang between you.
That's the last thing you remember before you wake, alone, confused, naked, and sore as hell the following morning. You've no idea what he did to you, but it's not hard to put two and two together.
Your legs are weak, and the bright lights hurt your eyes, but you manage to find clothes and stumble down the hallway.
Roman’s voice echoes throughout the apartment, putting you on edge, but eventually, your mind wakes enough to realise he's on a ‘business’ call, which actually provides you with the perfect cover to get out without pursuit.
It doesn't last long, however, like the calm before the storm. Fate only spares you enough time to get home.
Two things are realised as you try to scour the shame from your skin under the hot stream of your shower. Roman realises that you’re gone and starts blowing up your phone with calls and texts, each ping disturbs your safe haven like a 21st-century omen. The second realisation comes when you feel something cool on your scalp as you shampoo your hair. Drawing your hands down to examine the cause, you realise that at some point Roman had returned the rings to your finger.
When the water finally runs cold you reluctantly head to your bedroom. Still damp, you scroll through the flurry of notifications on your phone. Skimming over each text, you can see his downward spiral as he descends from short, well-written messages to paragraphs upon paragraphs brimming with capitalisation. You’re prepared to turn your phone off and ignore him until a series of voice notes pique your morbid interest.
Bracing yourself, you pull the towel tight around your body like a comfort blanket as you press play on the first one.
[New Recording 001] 0:00 〇───── 1:23 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
Nothing but a strange tapping can be heard for the first few seconds. You're confused until you hear your voice whining and huffing in sync with what you now realise is the sound of skin on skin. Of Roman’s hips as he drills into you. You must have been excessively wet to make for such a vulgar slapping sound.
[New Recording 002] 0:00 〇───── 1:46 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
The second recording begins with Roman’s voice, whispering something low and indecipherable. You cringe when you hear yourself respond with a loud moan, and; “Oh fuck- oh FUCK, I missed your dick, Roman. Missed feeling you deep inside me.”
Heat rises through every inch of your body as you take it all. If Roman could see you now, stone faced and furious, he certainly wouldn’t call you beautiful.
[New Recording 003] 0:00 〇───── 5:04 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
“I love you!” “I love you too baby-” You choke on air, hitting pause on the third recording and taking a break to wallow before letting the rest play. “-you ever gonna leave me again?” “No, nonononono, I’ll never leave you, never ever.”
“Want you to keep me forever.” You sound dazed. Positively fucked. Every word out of your lips is slurred and breathless. “I know you do; always knew you couldn't keep away from me.”
[New Recording 015] 0:00 〇───── 1:59 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
“More? Only if you beg.” Roman sounds elated, like a pig in shit. “Please-”
Whatever he'd slipped you can't have been a roofie, you’re too lucid, too vocal. Possibly an aphrodisiac? He probably paid big bucks for something Ivy had cooked up.
There are so many more, varying in levels of filth and soppiness.
[New Recording 022] 0:00 〇───── 0:47 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
In the last one, he asks if you still want a divorce and your drugged-up, sex-hazed, idiot self cries “No, no Roman, I love you. I want to be with you forever.”
He follows it with one last text:
Call me, or I'm sending this to my lawyer.
Frst time drawing his black mask form... >:3
🐷🐢 movie night #0000000:
Black Mask (Daniel Lee, 1996)