#devilmass

They’re sprawled on his bed, stripped of their belts and their pants as Michael in Caravaggio-baroque shadow says he’s putting Carlo on a plane to Vegas. 

“Letting him off the hook,” Sam whispers shoulder-to-shoulder, like they don’t know what’ll happen next. 

Rodrick is nearly tall enough to spill over this rinky dink mattress. Despite Sam’s rule of never smoking in bed, a carton of menthols lies pillaged between them. His cathode-ray television perches on a wooden armoire, glaring down like a walnut crow cawing omens of righteous cinematic death. Sam swigs beer.

Carlo shuffles into a car. Clemenza strangles him from the backseat with a line of wire. 

It gives her a sense of purpose to help, and there isn't much else to do in Port Elouise. It's good for her, even if it's just cleaning and organizing papers. Keeping busy keeps corruption at bay. The old mantra sticks with her. Work keeps her out of trouble.

All that collected shame has to go somewhere.

As a child, church was never a home for her like the sister program had been. That home is gone, washed away for the best, and religion becomes her new ritual. So much is different about it, but she isn't.

Her rabbit heart races at the accusation.

To say no to his question is an obvious lie. Everyone sins. Are her sins grave enough to make the Lord knock a picture down over and over? She stares at his hands spread on the pages. She can't meet his eyes. She doesn't think it's her fault, yet. . .

❛  y'think god ain't watching here?  ❜

[please stand by...] 〝 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙶𝙾𝙳? 〞 Ba-dum tss! The audience, a writhing mass of teeth and shadow, lets out a burst of canned laughter. 𝙼𝚁. 𝙼𝙸𝙳𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 can't help but smile too. 〝 Oh, you know I kid... 〞 Though what could He ever want with a place like this? Everything stinks of ash and rot, the studio baking beneath one spotlight too many. Broken glass glitters against the moldy, gore-streaked carpet. Rust in the rafters, cries echoing through the charred walls: 𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝙰 𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙻.

〝 The Big Man upstairs wasn't invited. You were. Besides, I don't take kindly to pryin' eyes... 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳 𝙸𝚂 𝙼𝚈 𝙾𝚆𝙽. How'd you feel if someone stuck a pair of binoculars through your bedroom window? 〞

❛   You planning on feeding her?  Aren't you worried you'll lose a hand ...Father?  ❛

@devilmass asked: ☃ What they wear around the house / ♜ Interior decorating aesthetic. give it to me. 🤲 ⊱ via.

☃ ✧ 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒.

⸻ the unsurprising and simple answer is nothing. jasim hates being clothed, especially if he doesn't have to be, so he'll generally hang around his flat in his underwear. if he has company, or is feeling particularly insecure in his body, he'll wear some sweatpants or jeans with a t-shirt, maybe a hoodie. a lot of the time, he'll strip down to just his trousers when he's freshly arrived home and hang out like that until he heads to bed or leaves the house again.

♜ ✧ 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑒𝑠𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑐.

⸻ comfy chaos is the best way to describe his flat. he likes warm tones, lots of plants, dim lighting. blackout curtains are a must, especially in his bedroom. everything is, more or less, tailored to his cats and bird more than himself. animal-safe plants, a couple of cages for nanshe, pet beds galore—you get it. the aquarium is in his bedroom for vibrant yet soft mood lighting. he collects a few things as well, namely coffee mugs and furbies, both of which are proudly displayed. his humble but valuable furby collection is important to him; one of them turns on every so often despite not having batteries in it, routinely scaring him when he's trying to sleep. besides that, though, it's a pretty chill space. he's hellbent on keeping it clean and relatively organized, maintaining a neat apartment despite how he isn't so neat mentally and emotionally. ya know, just ignore the number of blood droplets found in his bathtub and sink perhaps too often.

"D'you really believe that, though?" Maren looks up at @devilmass with wet eyes. Her voice is weak, pathetic and exhausted as she pleads for the truth. Rodrick is the only one that's ever seen past her flaws. He's the only one who's ever seen the good in her, who'd ever dared to come close. She didn't feel like a hero. She hurt too many people to be a hero. It didn't matter how many lives she saved, not when the number of those she'd taken would always be higher.

"Mama always said there was somethin' wrong with me. That she knew somethin' was wrong with me when I was still in her belly." As she speaks, a small trail of mucus drips from her nose and she wipes it away with the back of her hand. "She said she felt like Rosemary, givin' life to the devil. Like I wasn't human." Shaking her head, Maren tries to push the thought of her mother away. It did no good to dwell on the past, especially the sharp, stinging memories of her childhood.

She sniffles, the evidence of her heartache present on her cheeks. How long had it been since she'd cried? She almost thought she'd forgotten how to cry, that her tear ducts had dried up and rusted like an old faucet.

GIF credit to @crucifiix!

WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE: The mask makes an impression, that's for damn sure— It's some sort of woven fabric, not exactly a soft, thin thing like cotton but maybe a more burlap that's been treated in some way to make it more solid. Below the neck, he looks like he stepped in from a boarding school in the early 1900's. It's the casual three-piece suit in the colors of old-world academia. It's the loafers that he's polished and pressed so they have a luxurious shine. There's no good reason for him to dress that way outside of just enjoying looking spiffy and having an excuse to wear a gaudy tie.

When the posh sleeves are rolled up it's a different story— tattooed sleeves that hide a myriad of scars. Calloused working hands with hard knuckles from repeated abuse. Nails that are stained around the edges with blood.

If you're one of the rare folk who can see behind the mask...there's another one under there. Face paint is his best friend these days and he's gotten used to painting himself up. It's a less-than-artistically done skull, all black and white. And a mop of mousy brown hair that sticks up at all angles plus a short stubble.

WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE: Canvas. You ever smell canvas? Maybe even those raw, brown ones. New fabric and paper and old book smell...but fresher. Smells like smoke occasionally when his nerves get the better of him. Smells like...the inside of a Doritos bag. Or some other Frito-Lay concoction.

WHAT THEY TASTE LIKE: Yuck. Skin is sweat-slicked half the time— his job is very laborious. Lots of exertion. Under the mask is a bit sweaty too. Don't ask him if he's hot under there, leave him be. Mouth is stale, cheap beer at times. Blood on other occasions. Leftover smoke. Teeth-rotting sweet and sour from some gummy he ate. Punch in the mouth from some weird kombucha he made.

WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE: Sounds like he should work in IT. Medium pitch and no, he does not pitch it down when he's doing his job. You get the IT guy who's going to tell you about his cats. Slight nasal tone at times, especially when too tired to articulate or when whining. Has a lot of 'z' sounds— it's not he's it's he'z. Words run into each other at times, mainly when excited or monologuing. Not loud at all really...quite soft-spoken...his voice trails off at the ends of sentences. If you ever need someone to very clearly whisper, he's your man.

WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE: Philo is a product of pain in every respect. Grab an arm and its taut muscle over bone. The years of having to forcibly kick the snot out of his peers have resulted in lean muscle. It's not a punch with his whole body into it, it's just straight-up clear and calculated bone directed at your face. Reach under that mask and the stubble scratches. Under the polished outfit are more scars and you'll notice more how some bones haven't healed right. Back humps a little from all those nights in the cage and you could run your finger down his spine and feel every bump of vertebrae. Hands are rough and calloused— mostly thanks to his work. He's used to how it bites at fabric and no one wants to hold his hand for long.

Actually, no one wants to hold his hand so...it's fine.