Memes ;; The First Thing They Notice - Tumblr Posts
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Send me a ✧ and my muse will tell yours the first thing they notice when they look at them
It was late when the news finally came on, attracting his attention as he stood outside on his balcony with a smoke in hand. Inhaling a lungful of the noxious fumes, Roman tore his gaze away from the smoggy view of the city sprawled before his eyes, flicking his cigarette over the railings without even bothering to watch it fall down into the streets below. Barely two days had passed since Gotham’s mayor had been brutally murdered. The city itself had been rocked to it’s core, shaken out of it’s usual dystopian squalor even. Roman on the other hand had been most pleased, keeping an ear out for more information as to who had performed such a gruesome deed, and on Halloween no less. Perhaps it wasn’t too complicated. Anybody who knew anything about Gotham understood perfectly well how corruption ran as deep and filthy as the waters of the polluted bay just outside his bedroom view. Snatching up a bottle of whiskey, Roman made his way over to the sofa and sat down, pouring himself a shot of the golden liqueur while he listened to the reporter’s rambling on what was about to follow being potentially disturbing to some viewers. Whatever he’d been expecting to see that night, it hadn’t seeing the mysterious killer so soon. There on the screen was a masked figure, dressed in a matching suit of dark army green with a customized question symbol painted upon his front in white. Roman wasn’t surprised to see that; concealing your identity was a smart thing to do really and the man tilted his head, gaze flickering over the material covering his(?) - Roman believed it to be his - face, just barely able to make out a pair of eyes hidden behind a gleaming pair of glasses. It had to be him, the killer who had slaughtered Mitchell, Jr. and Roman grew ever more satisfied when this person, this Riddler he’d called himself confirmed his deed. Not only that but he’d also captured another member of authority, this time revealed to be none other than Commissioner Savage. Roman smirked at the sight of the familiar face on the screen. He recognized the poor bastard immediately even with his head locked inside a cage full of rats, the whites of his eyes rolling around in terror as he watched the filthy little animals scurry closer and closer to his face. What was disturbing to other people was peak comedy to Roman, knowing how the precious police commissioner had his finger in plenty of pies around the city he’d sworn to protect. How tragic for him that after all these years of ‘dedicated’ service, his actions (or lack of) had caught up to him at long last. Pity, really. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Still, Roman wasn’t interested in the fate of a man certain to be dead by now. His attention was focused primarily on the one who’d called himself the Riddler, listening with rapt attention as the budding serial killer promised he would kill again and again until he’d finally unmasked the truth about Gotham. Unmasked. What an apt choice of word for a place where people wore masks on a daily basis. “The Riddler, huh? Gotta say I like his mask...” Roman laughed out loud, speaking to nobody in particular as he toasted the television screen with his glass of whiskey before downing the contents of glass in one go.
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Send me a ✧ and my muse will tell yours the first thing they notice when they look at them
From the moment he first saw Crane, there was something about the man’s eyes he wasn’t sure he liked the looks of. Roman couldn’t quite put a finger on why to start with; it wasn’t as though Crane was physically imposing, sitting quietly in a chair before him armed with nothing more dangerous than a pen and paper. No, those qualities were typically reserved for the orderlies hired to keep he and his fellow inmates under control and not once had Roman ever shied away from conflict with any of them. Doctor Crane was a different story. Roman had been interviewed by several of his colleagues so far, always nervous, always so quick to end their little sessions the second they felt he was getting out of hand. Not Crane. Behind those glasses, the psychiatrist’s gaze was sharp and intense, blue eyes fiercely calculating as they observed every gesture, every word he spoke as though searching for hidden meanings. He supposed it might have been their colour that drew his attention at first. Blue as a cloudless sky, Crane’s piercing stare reminded him all too much of the time he met Bruce Wayne back when they were both small children, seeing but never showing what he was really feeling inside. It reminded him too much of the way his parents looked at him also, thoroughly scrutinizing every flaw and blemish they perceived in him. Roman prided himself on looking past the masks people wore in their day to day lives. He couldn’t tell anything about Crane, not so soon. “Did anybody ever tell you what fierce eyes you have, doctor?”
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Send me a ✧ and my muse will tell yours the first thing they notice when they look at them
As much as he hated being incarcerated at Arkham, there were one or two sunny places to be found within the depressing asylum walls. One of those places was the library, at least on those rare days when staff allowed him inside to read during leisurely periods. It was one of those small comforts Roman was glad to get, lowering his chances of acting out lest he ended up on ‘time out’ for the foreseeable future. Sliding his fingertips over countless worn spines, Roman selected a book - Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, ignoring the puzzled glance a nearby orderly shot him. Of all the books he might have expected ‘Black Mask’ to choose, an old romance novel probably wasn’t one of them. Roman didn’t give a fuck what anybody here thought and sat down on the most comfortable chair avaliable, flipping through the pages as he began reading the familiar words... He sighed. He’d read Pride and Prejudice more times than he could count but there weren’t many other novels he felt like reading today. Perhaps he could sneak one back into his cell for later, when it all got a bit too boring and he had nothing else to do? Roman’s eyes flickered over the text; the orderly assigned to babysitting him seemed satisfied his patient was busy so he wasn’t a concern. Probably wouldn’t say anything anyway; Arkham didn’t hire orderlies to think. Turning over the page, a flurry of movement from the corner of his eye caught Roman’s attention. One of the staff working here, a woman he thinks he’s seen before, is currently hard at work. He’d never managed to get a good look at her face until now, Roman blatantly ignoring his book as he watched her perform her librarian duties. What was her name again? Kraven he believes he heard one of the inmates mention, but not so craven she couldn’t handle working in a shithole like Arkham Asylum. She moved closer, fully revealing herself at long last and Roman had to admit, the library could do a lot worse not having somebody like her here. Briefly he studied her appearance, the love and dedication in which she handled her books, even the ones that hadn’t been treated so kindly by his fellow inmates. "Miss Kraven, I presume? Or is it Mrs? I hope you can forgive the impertinence but I just wanted to say you have beautiful hair. That particular shade of red is quite stunning.” Roman inquired politely before returning to his book. He’d always liked the colour red, especially how it reminded him of other beautiful things such as fire and blood.
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Send me a ✧ and my muse will tell yours the first thing they notice when they look at them
Vigilantes were trouble, that much he’d learned ever since he first donned the mantle of Black Mask. There was little to admire about any of Gotham’s self-appointed pests sticking their noses into business that didn’t concern them but a rare few did catch his eye from time to time, whether it was because they worked alone or had very different ideas as to what being a vigilante meant. Foxglove appeared to be of the latter sort, a maverick who fancied herself a lone wolf. Roman found that very interesting, interesting enough that he’d actually sought her out first instead of the other way around. Quite the unorthodox method considering his usual preference of keeping a low profile until it was time to act, Roman hummed thoughtfully while studying the woman who, by all rights, should be an enemy he’d want neutralized before she could establish her roots in the city, threatening his inevitable climb to the top... but why cut his losses before they’d even had a chance to cultivate a deal between the two of them? Unlike her holier-than-thou counterparts who flapped about at night, the rumors surrounding Foxglove were decidedly less... savoury. Sure, she appeared to prefer keeping her head down but she wasn’t afraid to get her claws bloody either. At best she preferred avoiding unnecessary conflict, including those she saw as threats. A catagory in which he’d clearly been included. Smart woman. Now that he’d actually spent a little time talking to the vigilante however, it was plain to see there was more to Foxglove than first meets the eye. Her body language was guarded, shielding her personality like her visor shielded her face but some things couldn’t be concealed so easily, specifically the way she spoke. "Your accent... I’ve heard a lot of people talk while living here in Gotham, but I haven’t heard many who speak like you.” It was more of an observation than stating fact, Roman narrowing his eyes as he peered down at the twitchy woman. He wasn’t about to say he expected her to be taller, but the way she spoke interested him almost as much as she did. His parents, always thinking themselves so much better than the working man deplored what they perceived as common tongues, but the frank, honest way in which such people spoke had always been something he preferred over the pretentious airs and graces he’d long associated with his peers.
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Send me a ✧ and my muse will tell yours the first thing they notice when they look at them || @redhoodedjaybird
Roman’s gaze focused intently on the figure standing before, the pupils of his eyes almost disappearing as they shrank down to the size of pinpricks from the sheer anger he felt. There was noticable tension in his jawline as he fought against the urge to launch himself bodily at his foe, gloved fingers twitching - itching desperately for his guns. Even though he’d never seen what the man looked like beneath his outfit, Roman could only imagine the smirk he must be wearing beneath his mask right now. Only Red Hood could be that cocky, so brazen as to flaunt himself before a foe he knew wanted him dead in the most horrifying, agonizing ways possible. Dark eyes roved up and down the familiar figure, taking in the sight of that leather jacket, the black body armor adorned with the symbol of a blood-red bat reminiscent of Gotham’s Protector. Roman hated that symbol but more importantly he hated the one who shamelessly wore it, gaze flicking up to look into those blank white eyes staring right back at him. Roman hated that helmet. He hated the way he covered himself up, shielding his body from other people’s bullets and especially his own. He hated the way he spoke and act, interfering in Black Mask’s business without fearing repercussion. He hated the way he spoke and act, interfering in the business of Black Mask so fearlessly. What the hell gave him the right to do as he pleased? Roman despised it all, loathing every square inch of him. ”Still haven’t got yourself a new look, Red Hood? Can’t say I’d like it any better than the current one but maybe I’ll enjoy the sounds you’ll be making when I beat your face to a bloody pulp.”