E Pluribus Unum

Indie selective Funny Valentine || OC Friendly || Contains NSFW Mobile links: Muse / Rules / Mun

[20sep1847]

Moving to @uncharnel

Hey guys, thank you so much for dealing with the hiatus!

As of today, this blog will be archived and my Valentine will be moving to my multi. There will also be some changes, so please, if you’d (still) like to write with him, check out his tweaked bio!

[20sep1847]

Hiatus until Agust 1st

As you may have noticed, I haven’t been very active here lately. There are some things I need to consider about this blog and to facilitate that, I’m taking a little time away from it.

I’m considering a few options regarding how to move forward. Perhaps nothing will change, but I doubt it. Whatever I decide, I’ll post about it here and contact some of you privately if I think it’s needed.

Should you be unware and wish to interact with me, I can currently be found at @uncharnel writing minor Steel Ball Run characters and my Pet Shop @saqraljalid so hit me up there. Feel free to contact me in my IMs there if you’d like my Discord.

-JOH

[20sep1847]

Hiatus until Agust 1st

As you may have noticed, I haven’t been very active here lately. There are some things I need to consider about this blog and to facilitate that, I’m taking a little time away from it.

I’m considering a few options regarding how to move forward. Perhaps nothing will change, but I doubt it. Whatever I decide, I’ll post about it here and contact some of you privately if I think it’s needed.

Should you be unware and wish to interact with me, I can currently be found at @uncharnel writing minor Steel Ball Run characters and my Pet Shop @saqraljalid so hit me up there. Feel free to contact me in my IMs there if you’d like my Discord.

-JOH

[20sep1847]

whispereddreams‌:

Keep reading

   Apart from the dip in the mattress indicating that he had shifted positions, Funny didn't particularly pay much attention to what occupied his subordinate. Mirrors were not a particularly new addition to play for him, but never used so blatantly. In the past, they had been good for the occasional clandestine glance. Chance glimpses that made his blood boil, incidental. That, he thought, was what lent it its sensuous allure; the fleeting, almost forbidden nature.

   Seated boldly in front of one now, he knew how wrong he'd been. Would it be too vain to say, he enjoyed seeing himself like this? At all but the earliest of hours, he found little to complain with in the first place. Nature had been kind to him, as had time, and he regarded his reflection with approval more often than not. Perhaps even a pleased nod, as if the Funny Valentine in the mirror was one of his many counterparts.

   None of those times, however, he found as fascinating as this. He had seen himself naked many a time — it was difficult not to unless one was the most stubborn and devout of puritans — yet not in this state. Rather than falling and rising sedately, his chest inflated rapidly with his shallow breaths. His skin shone with sweat and glowed with a heavy dusting of rose. His eyes were wild, pupils dilating to take in the spectacle of himself.

   Fair enough, the intensive self-study was vain. Moreover, not the reason he had hauled his heavily aroused body here.

   Any auxiliary ideas that might have come about from it took a backseat to Blackmore's approach. Cautious, as he expected. Obedient, as he knew it would be. Surely Funny could not be blamed if the smile he granted the assassin as a reward for his obeisance was on the smug side, convinced as he was of the genius of his scheme. It only faded somewhat under the squirming behind rubbing up against his sensitive shaft, lips parting to breathe a soft groan against Blackmore's ear. Even so, the president was quick to place his hands on his subordinate's hips to maintain a semblance of control.

   “Very good,” he murmured, making some minor adjustments of his own. The glistening mound between the assassin's opened thighs was pleasing enough like this, but not ideal. With a hum as thoughtful as it was desirous, Funny nudged them a little farther apart with his knees. Much better, the pink folds shimmering with Blackmore's slick nectar and his own seed on full, lewd display. The president took some time to admire them, hands squeezing Blackmore's hips with restless impatience before attacking his neck with his lips, eyes fixed immovably on their reflections.

   Where was the spot that had made his underling cry out so beautifully? Ah, here, conveniently marked by Funny's earlier ministrations. He went over them again, his teeth nipping teasingly light across the pink indentations they had left. What a picture they made like this, a timeless if scandalous work of art painted in shades of coral and gold. That Blackmore refused to behold it was but a minor irritation for the time being. He would come around in time.

   “Stunning, just as I suspected,” the president whispered in unctuous tones, a parting kiss pressed to Blackmore's sweaty cheek. Having enough of testing touches, both hands traveled over the curve of the assassin's hips and upward across his slender stomach. Though still dimly aware through the mist of appetence that the younger man bore no love for his chest, the twin hillocks topped with stiff, ruddy buds made his hands itch to cover them.

   “All of you.” The president's fingers sank mercilessly into the malleable flesh, pushing them together and releasing, relishing the toothsome bounce it produced. Remembering he was not doing this for his entertainment alone, he caught the assassin's nipples between his digits when next he kneaded the giving orbs. “Do you doubt me? All you have to do is take a look and you will see. Take your time, my dear Mr. Blackmore.”

[eyesofcuriosity]

Take me home, country roads.

[20sep1847]

eyesofcuriosity‌:

At the playful display of his strength, a soft giggle escaped her lips as she would press her fingertips against the said lips. Honestly, in these sort of moments, she enjoyed seeing his more …humane side, even cheeky as some might comment on it. But would she dare to point that out? She could only imagine the number of protest from his side. Such an odd delight.

“Oh my such bold claim my dear shepherd!” she chirped while gently placing her dainty hand on top of his, brushing thumb against his now exposed skin. The pup in meantime almost curled into a bun on top of Valentine’s chest…what a homey atmosphere.  “While I am aware that by no means you are a weak man, I will still need to see the evidence of your claim in the near future heh” 

Gently she pushed his hand so she could carefully climb upon the bed to his right side, making sure not to accidentally bump the little pup or him while doing so. And soon she managed to nestle by his side, reaching to toy with the long lock of his golden hair. “You were not the first person who was taken back by my methods due to well…..we both know what sort of the first impression I leave on people before speaking. “ since she knew very well that  plenty number of people would take her lightly due to her innocent appearance and mild manners…at first that is. 

Sighing quietly she would close her eyes, not feeling like she would drift to sleep but simply resting, she would let her hand move from his hair to his cheek gently crassing him.”My how confident, but I suppose that is the partial reason why I  agreed to this rather thrilling bond..”

   The dispute made his eyebrows rise in benign if bemused puzzlement. Under different circumstances he may have risen to the challenge if Nessa was so eager to have her proof. She would be the one to blame for tempting him by gallivanting around in her stockings, to be sure. Plus, the bedroom was rather the optimum place for goings-on of an intimate nature. However being together like thhis, free of baser urges, was fresh and new. Fragile, in a way. Funny had no desire to put an end to it.

   “I will do my utmost not to disappoint you and make you pine for a display of my prowess,” he murmured, giving her thigh a soft squeeze. “Rest assured, you will not have to wait long. If you plan on making this your regular sleeping attire, I see little possibility of not giving in to what instinct demands. I swear, you have a behind that would tempt a saint, my lamb. And before you ask, that is not a complaint whatsoever.”

   The small stab of disappointment he felt at having his hand removed from its new favorite perch was soon assuaged. Nessa was warm against his side, her touch gentle and soothing. Unlike her continued probing.

   “Now, that is a statement calculated to wound, Nessa,” he protested in mock affront, leaning his cheek against her palm. “Your presence here should be enough proof of my determination, even if some of my methods were less direct than others.”

   A rare grin bloomed on his features, lazy, indolent and deeply pleased. ‘Thrilling’ was it? How very inappropriate, a wonderful contrast to her innocent appearance. “Considering our first encounter, you are no better, are you? I will hardly say it was a waste of tickets, but neither of us would be a reliable source for a review of that night's performance.”

[20sep1847]

spiicegrl‌:

Makeup was just one weapon amongst many in her arsenal, though at a glance it may not seem like it as such. Convenient for pettily appearing as though last night’s folly had effected her little, but not as though it would grant her much in the way of strength or power. But oh, such a thought was so narrow-minded. Like any tool, all it took was the right skilful application, the right hand, and she could get anything she wanted.

It was oh, so useful that Passione’s underboss bore such a striking resemblance to her already. Doppio could very well pass as her twin, or visa versa, and nobody was willing to question why the two were splitting images of each other. Trish knew the frightening truth, of course, but regardless of that; all it took was a little bit of makeup to sharpen her features, a few more freckles added and she could have access to Passione’s more sensitive, restricted intel.

And, of course, some soothing words to the boy in question that, yes indeed, he did request those files, he just forgot, what a pity.

“Trickery!” she remarked, as if mock offended that he’d call her efforts nothing more than an attempt at duplicity, no matter how correct he was with that. It still pushed her to laugh, upper lip curling just pleasantly enough to be dismissed as a sneer but telling enough not to get too comfortable. As warning as the rattle of a snake’s tail was. 

“ – I suppose you’re not entirely wrong, my dear Funny. But if more men became aware to the fact we can evidently shapeshift with the help of makeup, we might all end up labelled as witches.” Indeed, there was nothing else to describe turning the blotchy skin, dark circles and perpetual need to scowl into something fresh-faced and pleasant. “Or have the price of makeup inflate for no good reason other than spite, I’m sure. It’s already annoyingly expensive as is, and I’m not what you would call a frugal spender.”

Keep reading

   If only women's chicanery stopped at paint and lacquer. Although the exact details of a lady's toilette escaped him, Funny was not fortunate enough to remain innocent of it entirely, marriage had seen to that. Instead of the corsets of old, a prudent woman would now wear a far less alluring garment to lift and smooth. Their glossy flesh-colored spandex he found rather distressing. And then there were the craftily designed brassieres, further instruments of deception.

   None of them cheap, they had that in common with makeup, sure enough. He paid the bills dutifully enough, hardly sparing a glance at the seemingly endless list of products. That battle he considered a loss. Any question as to why any of this was better than what could be found at the average corner drugstore had been met with too many hostile technical details that entertaining the discussion soon grew tiresome.

   “Us men have it rather easier, I suppose,” he speculated with blithesome lenience. That a phrase he had heard repeated time and time again. With any hope, it was enough to quell this line of conversation before it devolved into similar itemized listings of the beneficent properties of what came in this jar or that tube. Perhaps it was even correct that a man received clemency where the fairer sex would not.

   Funny's tailor's bills begged to differ. Ensuring a fit that flattered and materials that held up to the standards of his position turned out to be a costly business. Combined with a taste for the extravagant — although one sadly curbed by his stylist — it could be charitably called a miracle bankruptcy did not loom large. Then again, the same might be said for Trish. Or more likely, her father's hoard of ill-gotten gains.

   “Regardless, I am certain you would be no less pleasing to the eye in nothing but your own skin.” Funny hid a smile far too close to a smirk purposefully poorly, letting it play along one corner of his mouth as he scooped up another mouthful of egg. The headache still buzzed, not fully chased away by hearty fare, yet no cease-fire had been agreed upon. The game continued, a fact he should not allow himself to forget.

   “I find there is a charm in small flaws, an alluring vulnerability. Perfection only captivates for so long.” A humble statement to pair with such a bold look given over the rim of Funny's mug. Not the most subtle way to probe for remnants of last night's interest. Petty even. But oh so satisfying. “Alas, I think we can both say that we are held to different standards. To be in the public eye is truly a curse at times.”

   No matter how carefully one constructed one's raft of lies and illusion, waves big and small would come its was and threaten to send it to the ocean floor. With luck and cunning, one might paddle for a time, keep one's head above water and pray. Never long, such struggles would attract sharks that preyed on signs of weakness and folly, which last night's display had certainly been.

   Best if he was not seen with Trish for a time. If he had to throw a man unprepared for the icy waters overboard, so be it. Perchance Cading's unique nature would make him too unappetizing for Trish to devour.

   Unlike her, Funny set about his plate with determination, the savorless toast left for last. A dry crumb of it nearly went down his windpipe, a result of the disbelieving scoff his guest's assurances brought about. Or was it amusement? Either way, coughing into the back of his glove was far too graceless. “No, no, you simply must,” he protested, a stray tear caught in his golden lashes. “Mr. Cading will be absolutely overjoyed to have the honor, I guarantee it.”

   Shameful to take small delight in tormenting the man so, yet he had to admit he found the man fascinating. He fully gave the impression of one who breakfasted on plain oatmeal or other such bland substances and would take offense if one suggested anything a fraction as lush as the table they currently sat at. Imagining him having hobbies was difficult, surely doing anything for nothing but enjoyment would be an extravagance.

   Collecting stamps, maybe? Yes, that sounded like the right amount of excitement; a quiet night of organizing a collection that was already perfectly ordered. And then to bed at 8 PM on the dot. Perhaps with a glass of warm milk if he was feeling frivolous.

   “Nor do I believe anyone would be better suited. Mr. Cading has made himself thoroughly—” As if he would settle for less. “—familiar with his workplace even beyond I. Should you wish him to, he can provide you with a tour that is one of a kind and second to none.”

   And hopefully long, if Cading's admittedly titanic patience could bear it. Long enough for Funny to take a nap longer than his usual one out from under his watchful eye and take some time to recover from yesterday's indulgence.

   Well pleased with his plot, Funny wiped the corners of his mouth, denuding them of any sign he did not subsist merely on love for his country. His smile was subdued as ever but his good nature was no act, the slight crinkling of blue eyes showing the beginnings of lines. “Well, then. As I believe we are both sated, will you need some time to prepare or will you follow me to my office?”

[eyesofcuriosity]

Take me home, country roads.

[20sep1847]

eyesofcuriosity‌:

It truly was a treat she among a very limited number of people could see, president relaxing and acting as an everyday average person. Thought she would keep that little thought to herself, knowing him he just might lightly jab at her for saying something like that. Snickering she would shake her head and simply place little Henry on the bed close to Valentine’s feet. 

The pup mildly confused by the softness beneath him, soon rolled on its side still unstable and unsure how was it supposed to make its way on this strangely new surface. So instead, with some detrimination, the pup followed its nose and made his way to the president its nuzzle gently brushing against his now bare hand stripped from the clothed gloves. 

“Oh I believe you, dear shepherd, seeing how you almost sunk into it “ but she had to tease just a bit. It has been a long day and considering the grim subject they discussed moments ago, a bit lighthearted tease could never hurt no? Humming a tune she would begin undressing, unlike him for her it took a bit longer time. Women clothing just had to have layer upon layer, especially skirts were frustrating. 

But in a matter of few short minutes, she was standing bare in her cotton blouse and pair of white stockings, seeing how she forgot to bring her luggage top, in which was her nightgown, improvisation never hurt. Even in the dim light, she saw the adorable little scene on the bed, the pup seeking affection from its new family member….funny how fate worked. 

Not laying down fully yet she sat on the edge of the bed leaning her back against his stomach stroking pup’s top of the head as she would let out a soft sigh. “It is….quite odd or well hard to believe how far we have come is it not?”

   Stretching legs that felt tired and sore as soon as he lay down, Funny returned Henry's affection with some of his own. Eyes turning from Nessa to the pup, he carefully watched his reaction to being scratched behind the ear. It appeared more than welcome, the small mutt's head turning to press back against fond fingertips. As soon as the petting stopped, Henry rolled onto his stomach to give Funny a baleful stare.

   “Is that so? I am by far not a light man. At your weight, you should have little trouble staying free from drowning in it. Why, I believe—” Contrite in the face of the dog's despondency, he slipped his hand under Henry's body. One was truly enough, the pup young enough to not quite fit into his palm. “I could lift you almost as easily as I can young Henry here.”

   Pup cradled to his chest, a softly hummed melody caught his attention, blue eyes upon Nessa as she divested herself of the lion's share of her garments. It was moments like these that might convince a man he was blessed to bear witness to such a sight. Yet despite their earlier conversation, playfully libidinous, his blood was calm. His gaze roaming over her stocking-clad legs notwithstanding.

   “Perhaps, our first meeting was cordial but not what one would call friendly. A professional meeting with you resembles a trial more than it does an interview.” Unable to resist, he placed a hand on her knee, the pad of his thumb gliding over smooth silk. “I cannot say I was thoroughly charmed at the time, although even then I was cognizant of your more pleasing qualities.”

   His laugh was as hushed as the evening air, the light fall of snow outside the window no more than a barely perceptible rustling. “I have always believed that when one knows what one wants, one should take steps to procure it. So, no, I do not find it all that difficult to credit.”

[20sep1847]

spiicegrl‌:

What she wouldn’t do for the simplicity of pain medication. Just a singular pill down the hatch and twenty minutes later she could hopefully beat the migraine into submission, or at least into a dull throb. At least it was not what she’d call a major one – had it been, she’d be bemoaning in her bed, writhing in agony at anything brighter than absolute darkness.

As powerful as she may become, no matter the loft of her weight, she was still human and subjected to any manner of afflictions that may befall her. It took all of her willpower not to nurse her head in Funny’s presence, lest he saw her cheerful act as the sham it was. Which he likely already did; he was frugal on the details, all would be considered and none spared.

Not that it’d prove much other than Trish having a godawful time at handling alcohol and it’s effects after the fact. But she had her pride to consider, something that was just as important to her as acquiring – yes, yes, the Holy Corpse, she hadn’t forgotten the reason why she was here.

Oddly enough, she found herself having to repeatedly tell herself this. The thoughts were easily dropped when her gaze found itself on the stack of pancakes she’d selected, looking delectable. She assured herself that everything she did now was paramount to achieving her goals at the end of the day. Besides, the more Funny warmed up to her within their ‘friendship’, the more likely chance she might be able to wrench what she wanted out of him.

Keep reading

   Much like Trish, Funny wished for a relief for his pain, but it would not come in the form of a pill. Not after his time fighting for his country and especially not after the shrapnel rent his back. Advanced though science was, the fragments had been red hot when they embedded themselves into his back, cauterizing as they teared. Even the deftest hands could suture so much when the wound had closed itself around sizzling shards of metal.

   The field doctors had instead extracted what could be and availed themselves of the oldest effective cure they knew. Pain made it hard to stay conscious, so it was dripped directly into his veins. Telling that morphine addiction was once know as ‘Soldiers' Disease’. Once it took hold, it was torture to live without, even with less. Maladies presented themselves without reason in its absence, a vague malaise that seemed to penetrate every fiber of being.

   So no, his morning would not contain acetaminophen or paracetamol, generic or branded. Already, Funny was too dependent on his body's whims and wishes, sleep and hunger and… others that appeared more acute in the presence of Trish. For his self-inflicted headache, a full stomach would have to suffice, along with the placebo effect that came with his beliefs in the cleansing effect fats had on alcohol.

   “Did you? I could not tell.” So he had been correct, the dark circles that surely showed under his eyes were hidden by artifice on Trish's. That explained the vague scent he had detected, one he could articulate all that well. It smelled like make up; foundation, powder, some item he'd heard the name of but would not be able to apply correctly if his life depended on it.

   Scarlet had stopped bothering after the first year, at least at breakfast. It was really quite endearing when she had chosen to enjoy the morning meal with him, her skin run through with discoloration and blemishes she otherwise hid, her hair flattened where she had rested it on the pillow. Even her poor mood at that time in the morning had held a certain charm, although he had never acknowledged it until things had well and truly broken down.

   “I would not have held it against you if you had required more time. A lady's—” Which his former wife had not been. Strange how something so alluring had become nothing but a nuisance. “—morning ablutions require it, in my experience. Creaming and powdering and… what do they call it? Contouring? In my day, girls put eye-shadow on their lids, lipstick on their lips and rouge on their cheeks. Trickery has certainly advanced since then if your face is anything to go by.”

   In the meantime, the toast had worn out its welcome, saturated with butter or no. Now only tepid, the bread had unpleasant chewy quality under its crisp top and it was discarded in favor of something more savory. As it turned out, the bacon had indeed been fried to his specification and was too brittle to pierce.

   Were he alone, he would have picked it up between his fingers. At this hour, decorum could go hang alongside health, his collection of gloves large enough to change them if need be. His reserves of capital large enough to but new pairs should they get irreparably stained. Scarlet was not the only one that had let standards slip in the wee hours.

  Displaying exaggerated care, Funny shoveled them into the mound of eggs, shredding and mixing with his fork until they formed a whole. The overall effect was pleasant, fluffy and crispy, rich and salty on his tongue. He nearly inhaled them when Trish said something truly risible and a genuine laugh bubbled up in him. The hastily swallowed bite felt abrasive in his throat, not helped at all by an equally rushed sip of coffee.

   “Mr. Cading? Good Lord, no!” he croaked when he felt capable of any sort of speech, the remnants of laughter still evident in his voice. He could imagine such an outing all too well, the picture crystal clear in his mind. It would be the most efficient tour in the history of mankind, Cading providing only the barest of factual information and spending the remaining time waiting for the expected intense study of what he had just shown his patrons to end.

   A great patriot in his own way, Jasper Cading was. A man with a great respect for what had come before, perhaps even back to the days of the Colonies. Tradition outweighed all else, along with his very specific ideas of dignity and propriety. Were he to show laypeople about his workplace, no doubt he would soon be tired of their excitement and do his utmost best to curb it.

   “We employ specific people for that and by ‘we’, I mean the Federal government. Jasper's — Ah, Mr. Cading's — talents lie elsewhere. Did they not, I am sure he would be sitting where I am now, but the man is blessedly devoid of charm. No, I tell a lie, he can be quite agreeable once one develops a taste for him. Still, it is a bit on the acquired side. Much like Bitter Lemon, really. Too astringent until one becomes accustomed.”

   That small bit of mirth over with, Funny regarded Trish with a cock of his head, lips fighting hard not to twitch into the smile the image brought. How Cading would despise that detail. Unwittingly, Trish may have provided the president with an arsenal to counter his secretary's resistance. “You will find the Mall much more pleasant, on the whole. May I be so bold as to suggest the Smithsonian Institute? Many examples of the culture that have shaped this country can be found therein.”

   The tines of Funny's fork hit the side of the plate, suddenly thoughtful. “Unless you insist of being shown around by Mr. Cading. You did express a desire to meet him, if I recall. He would be a great deal friendlier within the framework of a showing of the showing of the monument that is my current home. Lord knows the man can hardly convinced to  take a break as it is, perhaps it would be best for all parties.”

[20sep1847]

spiicegrl‌:

Trish’s request, at least, would be met by one of the maids. She didn’t know if it’d be the same one as before that had prepared her room or not and frankly, she didn’t care. All she currently cared about was nursing her poor, throbbing migraine with some more ice cool water and perhaps a scone with strawberry jam or two.

Her fingertips massaged the centre of her forehead, a wailing, quiet groan spilling from her lips as it continued to be unrelenting against her, bad enough she felt like it gathered right at the back of her left eye. She threatened to drag her hand down her face, hazily remembering her morning routine did come complete with a layer of foundation to cover up old chickenpox scars.

When she pulled back her hand she grimaced, knowing why her fingertips were stained. Compact mirror brought up and foundation brush acquired, she fixed her mistake just in time for someone to politely knock at the door.

“ – Come in.” she said as way of granting permission. A soft noise of affirmation left the back of her throat at the sight of the maid, pocket mirror snapping shut and returning to the assortment of makeup she’d brought for the trip. The travel bag was barely an indication of her full collection, which she was remiss that she couldn’t bring.

Keep reading

   Plate piled high with all things savory and greasy his table had to offer, Funny paused in making his selection of more to add at the click of the doors' handle. No longer alone, the deep creases in his forehead smoothed out to something more pleasant. Free of last night's alcohol, the change in expression was automatic and smooth. A shame willing the headache's whine out of existence was not so easy.

   Especially since Trish looked irritatingly fresh-faced. Yesterday's foolishness should be affecting her as much as it did him — perhaps more, imbibing liquor another area he wagered he outstripped her in experience. If so she hid it well and truly, what man knew what lay under a woman's arsenal of paints and powders? He had little room to judge, when caught on camera, it was imperative to look one's best.

   Did he not abhor the sensation of what had been applied, he could see why one might make a habit of it. Nature or artifice, Trish's complexion was a great deal more vibrant than his own, he knew that much.

   “And I hope yours finds you well also, Trish. Mine has improved greatly with your timely arrival.” While he spun his accolades, Funny's hand reached for a piece of fresh, warm toast without conscious thought. Women did have an unfortunate tendency to make any man's health their concern and marriage had taught him to make a play at assuaging them.

   He would not, however, remove anything from his plate. His days were ever demanding, his work endless, never satisfied. He knew the rare quiet day, but never an idle one. Therefore, he would not deprive himself of the small joys found in a piece of bacon so crispy it shattered when he tried to pierce is with the tines of a fork. Arteries and blood pressure could go hang.

   In keeping with that sentiment, the glob of butter he scooped onto his knife was rather too generous for a single slice of toasted bread. He had made his concession, no he would enjoy it in the way he preferred: absolutely slathered.

   Before he touched the dairy to the brown, porous surface, he spared Trish a sidelong glance. How disgustingly cheerful she looked at this hour. The hands on his shoulders almost made up for it. Almost. The touch was as welcome as it was invasive after last night, a reminder of his own folly. The urge to shrug and be rid of it was strong, but summarily repressed. Instead, a smile, though one not nearly as winning as hers.

   “I am overjoyed to hear you are pleased with your stay thus far.” Taking credit for the quality of the lodgings was tempting yet ultimately unwise. Both room and bed far predated his presidency and while it had seen some improvement during it, he had not been involved apart from giving the order. “You indeed look it, although I suppose natural loveliness is not so easily tarnished.”

   Duties at providing niceties and flattery in equal measures fulfilled, he returned his attention to the piece of rapidly cooling toast. Contrarily, the butter had only warmed, threatening to slide off the blade unless it was spread onto something tout suite. To spare himself the indignity of a blob of dairy falling into his lap, Funny did so, the even scraping of the knife like a blade being run along a whetstone.

   “Thank you for your concern, I slept like a proverbial log.” He must have done, even if he did not feel the effects of it. Remembering it was another matter, neither falling asleep or any dreams. Perhaps that was for the best, he could not imagine they would have been pleasant ones. “Forgive me for not having you roused, I assumed you would want to spend your morning resting. Wrongfully so, if I am to judge.”

   Only when questioned did he consider the extravagance of the laden table. Too much for him alone, still excessive for two. He could not deny the kitchen staff had outdone themselves. He had asked for a big breakfast without further specification and they had delivered. Unless they wanted to consume unto sickness, they would have hard pressed to finish it even with her guards present.

   But they were not, an interesting and curious tidbit. When Trish had entered, he presumed they would be on the other side of the door, like his had been during their first meeting, ready to spring into action at the first sign of distress. What was he to make of this? ‘Trust’ a word often bandied about between them but no more than skin deep, without foundation. Not solid enough to risk one's life for.

   “Did you now?” Funny asked in much the same tones he might use to comment on the weather. The dull knife rejoined the mangled stick of butter on its boat, placed with undue delicacy. Lids hooded, the president regarded the toast held daintily between his fingers like the saturated bread held the answers he sought. “I would be remiss as a host if I let them go hungry. Do remind me to have something sent down, if you will.”

   With nothing to remark on that had any intrinsic value, he tore into the toast and it crunched between his teeth despite being decidedly soggy with fat. While he chewed, he observed Trish's choice of repast. Something sweet, the pancakes sticky with syrupy goodness. Appropriate for a girl like her — or the girl she purported to be at times.

   A pity no muffins had been served, he might have requested some if he had known for certain she would be sitting here with him. Without specific direction, his staff had no reason to serve something he bore no great love. But still, a shame. Such a simple item and yet there was something decadent of breaking one's fast on what more or less amounted to cake.

   “The ‘docket’ for today—” He gave a light laugh at referring to his mutable schedule with such an invariable term. “—consists mostly of extant work. Nothing too strenuous. That is, as far as I know it to be at this current moment. More often than not, something will present itself whether it has been ever so carefully penciled in or not, frequently without much warning.”

   Even drenched, the toast left his mouth dry, necessitating a sip of sweetened black coffee. Another thing he should have altered with the foresight that Trish might make an appearance. It was his mug, the one he drank out of every morning and throughout the day, that was true. It was also a mug he had owned he had owned for years, the cartoonish, yet appropriately American eagle once printed on it faded to obscurity, its lip pocked with small chips.

   “Rest assured I will find the time to keep my promise to you no matter what comes up and I fully intend to make this meal a leisurely one.” Perhaps the addition of some scrambled eggs would make the toast less parching, though the next bite did not prove it to be so.

   “Why not amuse yourself in the meantime? Now that you are a known guest, none will stop you from partaking in a tour of the White House. Then, of course, the National Mall is only minutes out and had much to offer. As long as you do not stray too far, it would be little trouble to send someone to collect you.”

[20sep1847]

spiicegrl‌:

It was an absolute mistake to let Spice Girl out beyond that of mere self-defence. Were she not so addled by the alcoholic rosy promises made to herself, she might never have done something so beyond foolish. Anger was a sobering thing, leaving only a pounding headache in the wake of knowing just exactly what could have happened. No doubt Funny was equally aware of it too, and that, like the entirety of their evening, would be chalked to something swiftly forgotten.

Her hand raised, uncaring for images for the brief respite of a moment; pinching the bridge of her nose. There was no lying when it came to Stands. There was nothing more raw, more primal than they weight of one’s soul given the gift of autonomy and allowing it to act. Spice Girl may have had a separate conscious to her own, but it was based in all that Trish knew, that she felt, that she understood.

Spice Girl was Trish. To try and explain the avoided scene away as anything less than some misbegotten desire was.. incorrect to say the least. As if the little display that could be little more than equated to a tantrum at the restaurant was any better, she’d repeated the same mistake of exposing innermost thoughts and feelings.

It’d be so much simpler if she just expressed a wish to kill the President, oh; she could handle that. It was already a consideration among many she’d had over their initial meeting and talks throughout, though she couldn’t pull any relevant information to dwell on underneath the weight of her pressing headache. 

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   Short of shoving Trish out the door — an action that would spell the surefire end for his front of gentlemanly conduct — Funny had no choice but to endure Trish's equally polite lingering. His general interest in her had not waned, but currently he found her presence more than a little tiresome, no matter how prettily unkempt she looked with her pick locks tumbling about her rounded cheeks. In a better context, that sight would have been rather enjoyable.

   “You are too kind,” he responded mechanically, not a whit of gratitude or ingratiated pleasure to be found in his tones. A rote answer all he could conjure up in his state of fatigue and unsuitably humbled by this night's proceedings. Unthinking, a gloved index finger hooked under the know of his tie for a small tug, loosening the suffocating hold it had on his throat.

   “I have nothing but the highest of expectations for our continued cooperation.” Barring a reprise of this… whatever this had become. Certainly nothing Funny would want to repeat. “The path to mutual benefit lies before us, all we have to do is walk it together and avoid its thorny byways.”

   With any hope, she would take that to mean something lofty and deep, rather than the weak excuse for simile it was.

   What a relief to see Trish take her first steps out of his life for tonight, off to some place where her being would not be so close and farcically disorienting. A shame for a man of his age to let himself be distracted by a pretty face. If anything, his experiences with Scarlet should have prepared him better. That had never been meant to be and surely neither was this. Nothing more than a passing fancy, unwise and grounded in transient whim.

   That was a failing he was aware of, yet apparently being cognizant of it did not diminish its devious potency. No matter how strong he thought his defenses, even it had cracks. Hairlines, imperceptible to the naked eye, and somehow still enough for these drops of basely amorous caprice to seek through. The sensation was not unpleasant. All the more reason to shun it.

   But, with Trish leaving, he would have some time to collect himself, shake off the meddlesome impulse. All he needed to make short work on them was some rest, a chance to re-order his mind, pick up the pieces strewn about by Trish's chaotic influence. When he had his wits about him, what had seeded in his subconscious would be torn out root and branch.

   In that, he had the utmost confidence, misguided or not, and his shoulders sagged as some peace of mind returned to him. Too soon, as it turned out, the whisper of a dainty fingertip along his jaw bringing them back up in defense.

   The very nerve of her. The absolute impertinence of what could only be revenge for his own little stunt with her stand. The—

   Lord. That was it, wasn't it? She had that spark about her, that cheeky rebelliousness he found inexplicably fascinating. Mixed with just the right amount of girlishly batted lashes and sweet smiles he found the draw of it irresistible. Eventually it would become irksome, time and experience had taught him that. What he had found most charming would become a nuisance, childish games worn out their welcome. It had happened before, after all.

   And God, wasn't that tap on the nose exactly like something Scarlet would do?

   “Anything you desire,” he vowed hoarsely after an uneasy clearing of his throat. His bemused stare had lasted too long for comfort, he should be glad his mouth hadn't been hanging open as well. Funny had little intention to keep that promise to the letter and a sneaking suspicion Trish would come away with just that if he didn't watch himself. “We at the White House pride ourselves on our hospitality for the select few privy to it.”

   As soon as the door had fallen to behind his illustrious guest, a few quick steps took Funny to the table, his abandoned glass drained, filled, and drained again. A pleasing chill, but not enough. Uncaring of how difficult it would be to peel off when wet, he forced his hand down the jug's opening and — after a precarious moment where it appeared he might not be able to get it out again — pressed the moist glove against his glowing forehead.

   But that paled to the solace his bed would bring, and he stalked towards its restful embrace with agitated steps, the doors between it and his sitting room left carelessly ajar. Once at its side, he let himself fall bonelessly forward, laying full length on the cool sheets like a beached manatee. Blue eyes under drawn-down brows stared at nothing as his hand snaked underneath his torso to undo the buttons of his jacket.

   There was no one to hear, but he still buried his face in the linen before letting out a drawn-out groan of frustration. Despite his assurances that their ‘friendship’ was proceeding well, he could think of few worse ways this could have started. How rapidly what seemed like an easy road to further tools to bolster his country had become muddled and far too personal.

   A short struggle and the jacket was flung in any old direction, landing on the edge of the bed to slide down to the floor where it landed with a pathetic little clothy whump. His tie followed with even less success at making it off the bed, lying at the foot end like a disheveled snake. A passing thought of removing his shirt compelled Funny to roll onto his back, but his hands did not move an inch. Too tired to care much for comfort, he let his eyes fall closed, awaiting Morpheus to carry him off to the realms of sleep.

    When they opened again, he was not sure if he had. The sun had risen seemingly without any time passing, yet neither his mental nor his physical state appeared to have improved much. In some respects, he felt worse. During the night, something had apparently crawled into his mouth. That upon closer inspection it turned out to be his tongue did not make him feel much better.

   Even showered and dressed in a fresh suit, the frizz of his nocturnal upheaval tamed once again, he had to admit, his overall bearing was not as flawless as the image he purported to portray. His cheeks were pale and his eyes red with tiny, irritated veins, the skin under his eyes tinged with an unflattering blueish hue. The illusion of being hale and hearty was further marred by the lines on his forehead caused by the tail-end of last night's headache.

   Breakfast would do him some good, eggs and bacon, the perfect cure for any hangover. That only left Trish. A failure to extend an invitation to join him might be construed as him trying to avoid her. Which, in turn might be mistaken for fear. Quite the conundrum.

   In the end, he decided against it. The way things were going, she would probably be as averse to being roused as Scarlet had been as well. Best to leave her be. If she decided to make an appearance at the table laden with far too many breakfast items for even his voracious appetite to handle, he would deal with her then.

[eyesofcuriosity]

Take me home, country roads.

[20sep1847]

eyesofcuriosity‌:

Leading the way upstairs listening to his opinion on what was wise to do with the little dog she would silently hum, musing of the various thoughts. The pup still groggy made another soft whining sounds gently chewing on Nessa’s tie. Which only earned a soft chuckle from her. “That indeed is a fair point he does appear to be of somewhat of mixed heritage, one can not guess just how much he will grow….hopefully not too big “

Hearing his own experiences with dogs earned a genuinely surprised grin, merely imagining him as a young boy was oddly dear. “Oh my, so you were capable of just a bit mischief “ giggling she would simply shake her head as they finally reached the top of the staircase. 

What greeted them was somewhat of a long hall with two doors on each side, since he arrived just a bit later then she did, she had no time to explore and check which one was the bedroom. Then again considering how big the mansion was there was a possibility that maybe at least 3 of the rooms were bedchambers.  “Hmm let’s see, I sadly did not explore enough so….first time the charm lets hope? “ giving him an encouraging grin over her shoulder she made advances with spring in her step as she would open the first door on the left. 

As soon as she would push the doorknob they were first greeted with dim darkness, the only light was seen from the wide window that was located in the far end of the room, in a center large bed and perhaps a chair or two she was not completely sure what else was there. 

   “What child is not?” he asked with genuine bewilderment at Nessa's surprised observation. For the most part, he had been a boy like any other, fond of running and playing, if perhaps a bit quieter than most. Timid, even, but that did not mean he did not have his fair share of childish flights of fancy. “The thought of being caught in my rascality hardly crossed my mind despite knowing full well my mother could count to five. Those were… simpler times.”

   The first time being indeed the charm, Funny peered over Nessa's shoulder into the bedroom's murk. Good, it appeared this was one area where the ball had not been dropped, a fact more evident when he followed her into the room. A single lit gas lamp did not do much to dispel the shadows, only drive them into the corners of the room. However, they did allow for a better look at the various furnishings.

   While not as shamelessly opulent as the one dominating his own sleeping quarters, the bed looked to be more than adequate. The four-poster tempted with subdued plushness, the prospect of sinking into its mattress undeniably inviting. It was certainly the focus of the president's attention, the rest of the furniture could be examined come morning. For the time being they would do as a makeshift shelf, his gloves the first thing to land on a chair's padded seat.

   Shirt followed soon after, and trousers, left to rumple where they lay. Not the wisest considering they'd be creased in the morning, but the assumption that someone would take care of it ran deep enough to be a habit.

   Suitably dishabille, the bed beckoned, Funny's eyes closing when his back hit the mattress only to open again within seconds. Laid on his side with his head propped up on his forearm, he was in a much better position to observe Nessa, although the position was robbed of any charm it might have by a deep, heartfelt yawn. “The bed, at least, I cannot find any fault with. Join me, lamb, see for yourself.”

[uncharnel]

Maybe she’s born with it                              Maybe it’s hysteria

The bio needs a little work still, but one bi icon has been added to the muse list

[20sep1847]

spiicegrl‌:

Trish could not see herself as the queen as long as her father sat in that ruling throne. Figureheads and puppet monarchs be damned, to suggest he was either was dangerously underselling the work Diavolo actually did for Passione. She may claim to pave a grand, golden road for her family’s legacy, but her father was it’s very foundation, the very ground in which for her to build from. She mustn’t ever forget that, no matter how spiteful her thoughts turned about the man.

He may have missed the mark with his dealings with Valentine in his misguided younger years; but it was certainly an exception and not the rule. Handling the drug routes and evading authority – or outright buying their blindness – was something beyond Trish’s handling. The semantics of such duties was something she was not eagerly looking forward to, as much as she had willingly accepted all duties that would be expected of her.

Doing the job and making her father proud were two vastly different things, annoyingly. She may be able to display any amount of smarts and intuition but if even the slightest thing stuck out for his shrewd eye, she might as well had not even bothered. Honestly, with how few and far between he was inclined to even offer praise, Trish wondered if it was even possible to make him proud.

A silly thing to dwell on, she thinks, knowing what her overall goal was to be. But, in order for Diavolo’s suspicions to remain only to his paranoia and without evidence, she had to make him believe she was still making efforts to appease him. The prodigal daughter, no more than a mirror of himself, he wanted.

Keep reading

   Imagining Trish to choose the life of a recluse was difficult to reconcile with how she presented herself — vivacious and opulent. No doubt she would not be an ascetic, thriving on humility and self-denial even then, not when there was no need to. The cloistered queen would lack for nothing, he was sure. Anything she might desire would be delivered by a loyal footman, though he doubted material luxury would bring her much joy.

   What was the point of prosperity without a chance to flaunt it? Power, as well, was best when one could see its results firsthand rather than as figures and names on a ledger. So clinically presented, they may as well be imaginary. Hardly satisfying. And, should she come into her power, hardly beneficial to him.

   “God forbid,” he murmured in faux horror, matching her in lighthearted sport. Despite the cordial atmosphere, the introduction of stands had done nothing to make the air crackle less with rigidity. They were an additional weigh on the world, making upholding the balance between them an even more delicate proposition. A careful push might shift it in either of their favor, a thoughtless one would send the scales tumbling, and with it, all the goodwill so tenuously built.

   “The light suits you much better, if you will forgive me for being so bold. Robbing the world of your presence would be an unforgivable crime,” he flattered, unconcerned with how gauche and guileless it might come off. Not that he had very much choice at this time of night, not when he had to divide his attention between Trish, her stand and his increasingly fizzling attempts to stave off sleep. “I, personally, would consider it a tragedy to live in a world not graced by your presence.”

   His blinks were much too slow, his wits barely better, Trish's long-winded stand theory the only thing keeping them from being snuffed out altogether. Any lamentations on her part about his age passed him by, dimly registering as something akin to awe. Even so, he deemed she was closer to nailing the mark than he had been in his much simpler statement.

   “Perhaps you are right and my stand does possess some agency of its own through mere instinct. The fact that its reaction time is much better than that of any human certainly seems to indicate as much. But whatever self-determination lives within it is poor developed, if I were to judge, overshadowed by my own, perhaps.” He breathed a laugh at that, breezy and almost — but not quite — apologetic.

   “Pithy as the phrase may be, it is what it is. D4C's nature is something I can change even less than my own and the same goes for all of us who have thus been blessed. What has been granted to us can be no other way, or so I believe. Yet that is not to say that simplicity, whether of function or mind makes for a poor stand, not necessarily. Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap's lack of any seeming awareness has not been a detriment.”

   Still, he could not deny the fascination with Spice Girl and her role as an apparently separate consciousness within Trish. Or of the novelty of having a conversation with a stand itself. Her way of expressing herself was… interesting and honestly bemusing. Funny's eyebrows rose in polite confusion at the mention of a father. Was that the shape Trish had originally summoned, the shape hulking and mien dangerous?

   “You honor me,” he muttered instead of investigating down that road any longer. He was too tired and his mind too dull to go pulling on that thread, too fumble-fingered not to unravel the entire garment. He would think on it later, lay all he had learned out in his mind and make an attempt to connect the dots. Like Trish's foreboding tone. “To be proven worthy of your trust can be no else, to be sure.”

   But oh, perhaps ‘trust’ was too weak a term, judging by the very giving reaction Spice Girl had to D4C's touch. Funny made a soft noise in the back of his throat; surprise, barely concealed. Blue eyes flicked to Trish to see it reflected there, then to his hand which bore the marshmallowy weight of an invisible cheek, his fingers twitching of their own accord.

   “Indeed,” was all he could think so say, a whisper of musing bewilderment. His gaze drifted from his hand, up Spice Girl's coltish curves, to see her sleek pink head turn just the slightest, the sensation on his palm intensifying. He would have smiled victoriously, glanced at Trish to let her know exactly how and why this came to pass. Except he didn't, that was the problem. Questions he had aplenty, answers lost in a churning limbo of confusion.

   One heel lifted off the ground, careful as a fastidious hunter, to take a step closer. Stopped by Trish's warning order. Stymied, the full profile of his sole returned to the floor and he leaned back almost imperceptibly with what felt awfully close to disappointment. For the first time tonight, he spared some attention to his own stand, perhaps expecting to see the selfsame emotion reflected there. There was none, D4C a perfect study in limp passivity.

   When he glanced back, Spice Girl had retreated into nothingness, hidden under the surface of Trish's consciousness. Suddenly feeling too fatigued and excessively stupid, Funny pinched the bridge of his nose, allowing his burning eyes a moment of reprieve while he did so. With that, Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap dissipated, winking out of existence like a snuffed candle.

   “Yes, yes, of course,” he agreed to Trish's nigh-demand, mild irritation mixed with a most definite desire to put this night behind him. He could not shake the feeling things had gone horribly wrong, lack of evidence be damned. Being able to castigate her would do his prognostications of doom a world of good but if he let himself lose his shaky control, that prediction might well come true. “I will go see what the delay is, shall I?”

   The very thought of using the ancient intercom again filled him with disgust, so he marched over to the door, gait stiff and brusque. Using more force than needed, he ripped it open and to his momentary shock, was nearly hit in the nose with a raised hand poised to knock.

   The maid who had almost visited this violence upon him stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth open. He stared at her, expression growing steadily stormier. The tableau stretched on for far too long until her glancing past him at Trish snapped him back to his senses.

   “You are here to show the young lady to her room.” A bitten-off statement that brooked no disagreement he would allow. The girl's mouth opened again, to confirm or deny his declaration he didn't know and he didn't care. He was not inclined to let her speak. “Good. Wait there.”

   With that, he closed to the door as vigorously as he had opened it, the slam of it exorbitantly loud in the night's hush. Hand still on the handle, Funny heaved a put-upon sigh before turning to Trish. “It appears your wish has come true,” he joked, though his delivery was rather sickly. “And not a moment too soon, yes? It has been an eventful day.”

   He approached her, halting at a cautiously appropriate distance. In silence he regarded her, many ideas of what to do next surfacing and being beat down in short order. They were all too familiar, too dangerous after what had transpired between their stands. “Well then…”

   Words did not often fail him, but in this moment, his mind may as well have been a blank slate. “I hope you have a good night, Trish.” A weak statement, ineffective. “Should you require anything, my staff is at your disposal, whether it be breakfast or a veritable mountain of linens. I will see you tomorrow.”

[20sep1847]

kindersturm‌:

     ❂ Julya listened carefully, digging her fingers between flesh and further next to bones as she devoured and let ear drums drift with the noise. If she were honestly, it would be quite clear that the half breed had zoned out and stopped listening to him all together. Only returning at the only survival at the end of one of Valentine’s annoying statements.

     ❂ The deceased corpse had only begun to lessen her hunger, and with soon seconds of passing after Valentine’s final statement, did she feel less of being subdued and more now of boredom. She wanted this one dead as well. The thought was pushed to the side with his ‘question’, she wasn’t exactly sure what he was referring to… Had he said something of context when her mind had went blank?

     ❂ Certainly possible, yet everything this man said seemed to only be drabble at that point to the mind of a bored and half hungry child.

     ❂ “Choice? What are the choices to choose from, cretin?”

     ❂ A slip, perhaps, Julya’s voice a bit chiding now as she lifted her digesting hand from the body simply over her leg, setting it simply as she moved her head to the side then back towards Valentine. Really, Julya was beginning to dumbly feel there was no threat to the situation. Sure, there had been a death then a duplicate come from nowhere yet be somewhere, there just meters away. Perhaps not even that much. 

     ❂ “And when you say it may serve a purpose greater than instinct. Are you referring to hunger? Really, you are starting to be confusing.”

     ❂ Ignorance created this blissful outwardly state of mind, after eating yet only for moments after, close to hours perhaps. Given the stretch of nerves, yes, indeed this would start coming to show. It had already started to show. An incomprehension where her mind decides to revert to a child’s for only so long, then again manner-less remained, far less so given the layer of gild was no doubt faded or evaporated with this euphoric state.

     ❂ “Oh- Ja- Ja! Evil, that.. consciousness, manipulation, distaste, heroics, all of that.. A lot of things make someone evil, and anyone can be it.”

   Appeasement had been the desired outcome of letting the woman still her hunger, the warning voiced by Funny's now perished self heeded, if not with the care it was due. Yet the more she consumed, the further she appeared to fall into some less civilized state. Uncertain if she was even listening, her posture one of preoccupied disinterest. More unsure yet whether any of her actions remained in the realm of predictability. Her scorn, however, was clear enough.

   A chiding noise annoyance rose is Funny's throat, his back tensing to irritated stiffness, straight as an iron rod. One heel ground into the floor, a muted scraping back and forth as he twisted it into the inferior lining. Displacement for anger that would have surfaced otherwise. She really was a most vexing character, this otherworldly woman — this creature in the shape of a girl.

   But… powerful enough to have done for his counterpart.

   “Yes. That is what I am referring to.” Short, curt, clipped, simmering wrath poorly hidden under a tattered veil of civility. Patience was running thin. Pointless! This was pointless! His best course of action to remove himself from this world while she was engrossed in the dissected corpse. Leave her and her foolishness behind for this America of his birth to deal with. The Corpse awaited, a much bigger priority than bandying words with a child.

   Why did he not? So simple. Vexing as she was, as an asset she might do, hunger the perceived key. Should it be possible to steer it, to lead her to sate it on his enemies, he would gladly deal with her nonsense in small doses.

   “You forget intent, Miss.” She did not deserve that title, that small nicety confirming her humanity or the veneer thereof. Funny forced it out all the same, tempting as it was to spit less flattering terms at her. “Murder may be a sin, but one can hardly call the actions of — say — a soldier that, can they? Killing is part of his way of life, yet he does so in service to something greater than himself. Out of love and duty. How could that not be a virtue?”

   Leaving that question hanging in the air, Funny stared down at the gun in his hands. His thumb traced the serial number engraved on its stock, the embossed number unfelt through his glove. It didn't matter, he could recite it from memory, forever buried in his mind by the pride of following in his father's footsteps. Duty had not ended there, in many ways he was still at war.

   “I do not believe your appetite is evil, only aimless,” he posited, smooth calm returning to his voice. Distasteful though she was, he could not put down the burden shouldered for something so minor. “What if I were to say that there was a way to harness it in my service? We would surely both benefit from such an arrangement, yes?”

[20sep1847]

spiicegrl‌:

Calling herself a princess was disingenuous at best and downright pompous arrogance at worst; a trait that Trish recklessly displayed time and time again. No doubt, during however long they remained ‘friends’, Valentine would become intimately aware at just how deep that pride ran. It was nothing more than fluff to claim that title; it held no real merit in either her world or his.

Still, it was a quite a shy bit shorter to use that title than the one her father would rather her use. She tires easily from using ‘daughter of Diavolo,’ or, given the fact he scarcely let his name be used, it was stretched even further to be ‘daughter of the Boss,’ a claim that had once almost been the death of her, so Pericolo recounts.

Trish was hard-pressed to believe her father had any semblance of mercy or even a shred of humanity no matter how many times the secretary told how much she should be thankful that he hadn’t been rid of her. Such was the life of a gangster; basic human decency and the expectation that a father would not want to kill their child were difficult to obtain.

Not that she thought she was much better. Even during the night focused mostly on Valentine and the exciting difficult of navigating the verbal pitfalls he placed – her thoughts had strayed to her father’s assassination on numerous occasions. It was such a chore, to have a spectre as tangible and meddling as him in the way of her golden plan.

Keep reading

   For the rest of the night, anything either of them said would have to be taken with a grain of salt. Every word from their lips over the course of their business did, the web of half-truths and riddles tangling and looping back on itself. The architecture of their duplicity would, given time, be so impossibly convoluted it would make even Escher's head spin.

   An admission of thuggery was a trifling triviality. Apart from a trusted few, the men Funny had hired to ‘assist’ in his plan had been no better. Oh, he could weave accolades fantastical about them, dress them up in patriotic colors and call them heroes defending their county. It would hardly take effort and be little different from any military man receiving an honor. The same sentiments, perchance the same words, only re-ordered to break any illusion of similarity.

   In his mind, he knew them for what they were; thugs, no better and likely no worse than the ruffians that made up Passione. Their loyalty had been easily bought and there was no doubt in Funny's mind that it would have lasted if another offered a reward just as petty and more tempting. Their only saving grace was that they had been stupid enough to not consider that they would not be able to enjoy their prizes from the grave.

   His bishops, knights and rooks had served their purpose, knowing not that the kings were the only pieces that mattered on the board. And this king — despite how deep the distaste of comparing himself to royalty ran — did not abide by the rules. The game could not end when the supply of kings was endless and his moves were not restricted to the board.

   Trish had sold herself short, if Funny were to apply the same metaphor to his dealings with Passione. Not a princess but a queen, moving in strides and leaps and bounds, ever unpredictable. Difficult to read. Slippery.

   “The minds of the living are difficult enough to discern,” came his ambiguous reply, broad shoulders rolling back in a guarded shrug. In a sense, a good part of his life had been spent trying to comprehend a dead man. He was ruled by his father as much as Trish was, the deepest irony if he was capable of perceiving it that way. Long shadows fell over both of them, equally inescapable.

   Yet Funny had chosen his prison and found contentment in it, strength and peace. Brick by brick, bar by bar he had built it out of nothing but a child's limited comprehension and second-hand accounts, conjecture and things half-remembered. Out of those he had constructed a dream, an ideal with an undeniable hold. An illusion. “The living,” he continued, airy and blind to the twist in his own reasoning, “we can judge by bearing witness to their actions. The dead will ever be a construct.”

   So with Fuentes, no matter how much the tales of his exploits may spark the imagination. A man Trish's father had known and to her, no more than a lingering ghost. A name to drop. Even so, the power of those connections paled compared to a greater one, that of stands.

   He did not need to follow Trish's gaze to understand what she saw. He knew what was there, just like he knew there was a hand at the end of his arm or a nose on his face without having to look at them. As addled by thirst and desperation as he had been when it had first manifested, its presence had never been anything less than natural. Quite the opposite.

   “None,” he confirmed, both basking in Trish's study and belatedly cautious. “It does as I wish it to do with commendable precision and no more. Over the twenty-odd years it has been with me, it has shown not an inkling of desire to function otherwise.To be fully honest, I do not ascribe such to any especial control on my part, rather its own instincts. It is said the first priority of a stand is to protect its user. As they cannot exist without one, it might simply be an act of self-preservation.”

   Watching Trish as carefully as she watched D4C, the vibrant arm emerging from hers caused a sharp intake of breath,  an eager hissing between his teeth. He could feel them dimly, the spirit fingers against his biceps. The distance of the sensation did not make it any less bizarre, a touch where no touch should be. Funny shuddered like someone was walking over his grave, but the curious hunger remained.

   And… there it was. She? Funny had never felt the need to think of his stand as anything but an object. It was no doubt the stand she had so briefly summoned at the restaurant, bearing a much closer resemblance to its user than D4C did. Protective but not aggressive, moving in a way that suggested something more than Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap's simple existence as an extension of himself.

   The voice was an additional shock, Trish's but not quite. Much more controlled, older, not that of a girl but a woman. Suspiciously, the president's eyes narrowed to slits, cold blue pupils now sharp as knives. ‘Cute’? Of course it would be best for her to think that, but to say it? Whose opinion was that, the girl's or the stand's? If it truly could operate independently…

   “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Spice Girl.” Damn it all, that meant Funny had two people to placate.

   At long last D4C sprung into motion. In danger, its speed was admirable, a near blur to human eyes, reacting too quickly for even a blink to pass. These motions were almost sluggish, its arm sliding under hot pink fingertips with at the pace of tectonic plates moving. Careful, a show of harmlessness, betraying not its strength or abilities. “Forgive my stand for being rather duller than yourself.”

   It was hard to speak softly and neutrally when the ghostly fingertips felt ticklish on Funny's skin, moving over his upper arm, his lower and finally the back of his hand. The round-eyes stand's head cocked, gaze following that of its owner. From Spice Girl to Trish and back again and then to the stands' hands. D4C's turned, Spice Girl's cupped in its palm.

   How separate the minds of stand and user? Perhaps it was time to find out. These projections of their souls and wills were an adequate barrier to take an action Funny did not dare perform without such an illusory impression of distance. With the same deliberate languidness, his stand's hand rose, fingertips brushing along dainty phalanges and letting them fall away to land with whisper lightness on Spice Girl's cheek. “All the same, it appears to have taken a shine to you.”

[20sep1847]

spiicegrl‌:

Tomorrow she would be sober and lucid and will know exactly how to proceed going forward, so Trish tells herself. She’ll chip away at the President’s defence bit by bit with genial affability; peeling away the many layers of masks that settled over him as much as she would step closer and burrow her way in. Once she had sunk her claws into someone, she was frighteningly difficult to dislodge.

An adequate metaphor for Passione, now that she thought about it. A parasitical blight on society, sunk in right at the foundations and the roots. To totally eradicate it, as she humorously dwelt on the blunders on wars upon drugs, would only invite further danger. Like a knife in a wound, to remove it would cause far more internal damage than it would simply leaving it in until a more surgical approach could be taken.

Once the tone had been set – perhaps during his fulfilment of his promise to play for her – she’d burrow a little deeper. A little touch to his arm and a suggestion that the President needn’t keep the arrow. That she remembered the miserly offer she’d made and sweeten it to be a winning deal.

Part of her felt as though she was pushing her luck; Passione gave him broken promises and he offered up America’s underbelly as a welcoming gift of her seizing control of her father’s little mishap. The cynical side was not so convinced. A man like Valentine, willingly offering up something that was only beneficial, no strings attached? There certainly were some, she’s sure, just so utterly transparent she couldn’t see where.

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   Truth be told, Funny had indeed not had the pleasure of hosting a princess and should that occasion arise in the future, that blue-blooded woman would surely give him the advanced notice he required. The clout of royalty had significantly diminished over the last century, leaving most with such esteemed blood little more than figureheads.

   If one could call it that. No true patriot with the blood of freedom running in his veins would think it anything less than a stain. No staunch democrat could tolerate such posturing by right of birth, demanding worship and tribute like some mean, venal little god. The very notion of it disgusted him but more distasteful was that it was still tolerated in this dag and age. Thank God it was leveler heads that ruled, once proud monarchies reduced to shaking hands and reading the occasional speech.

   Regardless, he refrained from any further scolding, as well as republican grandstanding. Trish's little boast regarding her status was a hint not to be missed, a small clue pointing to how she would like to be treated. Which part Funny's then? That of the prince he had the appearance for, perhaps not the temperament. Nor did he think himself to posses any aptitude to play the lowly swineherd winning the princess' hand through bravery.

   He had an inkling to which Trish would prefer; neither of the above but rather that of the loyal servant. He could not bring himself to feel overly insulted at that realization. Excess brazenness was one of her strengths and would remain so if she learned to temper it with wisdom before it stopped being cute. In a sense, the fearlessness behind it was admirable, if off-putting.

   “Skillful and trustworthy as I am certain your Pericolo is, I prefer our current arrangement. This is a matter in which even the most trusted man cannot be allowed too much agency, do you not agree? This is a delicate negotiation as it stands. The time needed to communicate with your various heads would only bog it down further.” His expression was supremely blank, a void blanketing the underlying disapproval.

   She was not suggesting a stand would be needed, was she? As if Funny would be so quick to do away with the unfortunate man, wipe him off the face of the earth with an unseen hand. Not that it was completely out of the question. When one's greatest weapon was as innocuous as a door slamming against the wall, ridding oneself of nuisances was all too easy. “Suffice it to say that if the gentleman in question was the one that had been sent, I would afford him the same hospitality as I do you.”

   Doubtlessly he would not have taken such shameless advantage of it, Funny did not say. Very emphatically, he did not say it. The price one pays for the pleasure of engaging company had turned out to be steep.

   Although he had raised the topic in the first place, any speculation of the existence of spirits was not as stimulating as it could have been. His own answer had been noncommittal to the extreme, revealing nothing of his personal feelings on the matter. As it should be, yet that lent no frisson to the conversation whatsoever. Anything more, however, would have led it down paths he did not wish to tread, one filled with a few pitfalls too many.

   “I cannot imagine that to be a very pleasant chat, no,” Funny acknowledged Trish's own speculation about supernatural communication. “Were I Fuentes, the manner of my death would be a sticking point for the entire span of eternity. Of course I knew him as little as you, so perhaps I am mistaken and he can see the humor in it. I suppose in the end, he did succeed in his scheme to evade the authorities, if not in the way he had imagined.”

   Humor was not Funny's strong suit, but he allowed himself a thin smile at this one. It was adequate to hide his satisfaction at Trish's lack of care in revealing whence some of the origin of the wares she peddled lie. No wonder a foothold on these shores was not enough to entice her. What a waste to ship one's goods all the way to Italy when there was a booming market for them on the same continent.

   A relaxed swing of arms brought Funny's hands around to his front in time with his measured steps. Spread fingertips tapping against each other like a miniature round of applause, muffled to dull pats by the fabric of his gloves. No evil overlord's steepled fingers could have been more foreboding, although he failed to notice them.

   What a boon Trish had bestowed upon him. Many — surely not all, but at least some — of Fuentes' routes were known to American authorities. Should this be another war, inroads could be made to deny his enemies free movement.

   “Of course, I would be delighted,” he agreed without a second thought, willing to grant her anything but the Corpse if it would keep her talking. He took another step. — Would Passione still use the same ports of call in America? — His brow crinkled, mind clamoring for his attention. — No, no, of course not. Criminals they may be, but if they were that stupid, they would not have the influence they do.

   Another step, toes hitting the floor first, heel lowered slowly. Funny stopped. Cocked his head, eyes scanning the ceiling for a brief moment. Turned. Regarded Trish in that same, imperious manner, gaze roving over her from her toes to her head. He had made many promises today. Some wise, some unwise. For this one… there was no time like the present.

   Not moving a muscle, Funny delved into his mind, reaching into the nebulous realm where his stand dwelt when it was not present in the material world. Outlined by a quickly blue glow, it formed instantly, never more than a thought away. No, not a thought, something even lesser. Instinct. Need. Summoning it was as natural and automatic a reaction as one's hand reaching out to catch a falling object.

   “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap,” he announced it, voice matter of fact, a vague wave over his shoulder indicating where he knew it would be though it disturbed not even the currents of the room's stale air. Cognizant how odd a phrase it was without context, he clarified, “That is the name of my stand. I recognize it is rather unusual, but calling it by anything else has an air of wrongness about it. I am sure you understand.”

   Legs swinging with the easy regularity of a pendulum, he approached his guest, gait slow and measured. The white phantom followed at an even pace, silent as a shadow. It would not do to spook her. If D4C still could, he thought with bitter amusement. Being shorn of its armor had not diminished its potency as far as Funny had been able to discern, yet its appearance had suffered greatly.

   Once, its eyes had been similar to his own, emotionless and cold, radiating chilly superiority. Denuded of its face plate, the resembled something closer to those of a robot from the silver age of Hollywood or buttons on the face of a ragdoll. If any sort of sentiment could be ascribed to its countenance, it was one of innocent curiosity, not the ruthless menace it formerly emoted.

   Its body was similarly less imposing than it once had been. Where had been ivory armor was now a texture closer to skin, pale and dimly glossy. The shredded shards of its ‘ears’ surrounded its head like a halo, collaring it in a jagged crown. Its left arm ended in a sundered stump, wires dangling from it like it was no more than an automaton, swaying limply as it pursued its owner.

   Funny halted an arms' length away from Trish's chair, a careful distance lest his precautions had not been enough. As fit for a princess, he extended a gallant hand in invitation, bending smoothly at the waist. “You may come closer if you wish. My stand has no will of its own and will not harm you unless I direct it to do so. Do not be afraid.”

[20sep1847]

jorahgothique‌:

Showing them that he loves them? Did he not do that? Did he not spend time away to provide for them and give them everything? That in itself showed, right? He not a vile drunkard or an adulterous cow, but a hard worker. He left so that his family may thrive. Surely they must have understood that. He not there only because he loved them, all of them, so very much. That was a show of love and devotion! It all needed to start with love and Foley did that. If no one could see that was a show of his love then how foolishly blind must one be? 

It was unfathomable how frustrating this was. If his wife detested him and his absence she could have left. Gone before he’d even notice. Gone without a trace. But she didn’t so she must have seen what he did was out of love. He was a great father and husband. He just had to be. 

So why couldn’t he see that? And why couldn’t he look at her. Although she had pulled at his arm and called up to the mountain of a man he still remained averted. Now speaking of how when he finally stayed home he now nothing more than an ever needing repair. His bones too ached to be strong, his back to stiff to bend…as helpless as a little child. Hardly, Jorah disagreed. Maybe it not the reward but the reward itself was having him home. Sure, his memory may be lame but his heart remember who it beat for. It beat for his family. What was difficult about admitting that? So why couldn’t he just look at her? 

But when he did Jorah’s skin burned to a stone chill. What eyes were those? Surely not his. Cold, hardened and devotedly determined. She hadn’t seen those eyes from him, had they always been there? This gaze seen before, but in different men and women. None, who had been like sweet Mister Foley. It…frightened her? Is that was this feeling was? This odd, noxious, mix of shock and shaken–could it be a sense of uncomfortable fear? 

Jorah knew not, and nor did she notice the timid step back her heeled boot made. Suddenly, she no longer wished he’d look at her. His devotion now open proudly. Admitted who his heart beat for he did, and he did so with such determination he could take down the world. Determination laced in eyes she new longer than his. It had been what drew her to him, what made her stay. They were like ocean’s wrath. Those deep blue eyes that had stared into hers the day she decided to have a little fun.

As soon as they appeared even faster they disappeared. Back into brown big eyes that just seemed to chime silly. Now, it was Jorah’s turn to bow her head. -“Don’t apologize to me anymore.”- A command that replaced an apology far too stubborn to survive its conception. Though, it may not have sounded that commanding after all. Her voice found itself tired and small. Fear twisted, or started to, into a delving unsettling thing. 

-“Before my grandfather died–Yorah,”- The young woman interrupted herself, “was his name. It sounds similar to what I am called, does it not? Jorah, Yorah…”- She took time enunciating the difference between the hard ‘J’ and soft ‘Yo’. -“Though he always pronounced it how his name was said. I never really minded. He was a silly man.”- That he was. A believer in all kinda of superstitions and the like. 

-“Before he died he became quite ill. It started slow, difficulty walking–the typical things that happen when one gets older. My grandmother got him this nice cane to help him but then his hands become too weak to hold it and with them his legs because too thin to support him. He was brought to the bed then.”- Jorah stood in that moment as she mindlessly recalled past. It was strange seeing him like that, once so chipper now forced into silence. 

-“My grandmother through it all stayed by him. When he could no longer hold the cane she would hold his hand around it and when his legs gave out she tried her very hardest to hold him up. She was reluctant to retire him to bed after the doctors explained everything to her. And even then,”- a bitter sanguine chuckle, -“she would shoo the nurses and doctors away when they tried to aid him in daily activities. If he needed a bath my grandmother could handle it. If he needed to use the chamber then my grandmother would take him there. If his soup too hot it would be her breath to blew it chill. As would her hand guide the spoon to his lips.”- Jorah recounted when even she attempted to help her grandfather put on his robe while her grandmother prepared the bath. Her grandmother, as quick as that little woman can be, came sliding over and swatting her granddaughter away with a pruned thin hand. 

-“In the beginning my grandfather would tell her he was sorry and that he was grateful. My grandmother just pat him atop his head. Eventually, as he grew more and more tired, his voice left too. Maybe he still aware of what my grandmother did, I like to think that. Either way, each and every time still, my grandmother would pat his head. Then he died and my grandmother washed his clothes and cleaned the floors.”- The maids typically did that but somehow they knew to not approach the silent old woman that day. It had been the quietest she had ever been in years. 

-“…I think–”- Jorah began after a silence, calm and empty, -“I would like to go to bed now.”- 

   If he hadn't learned to recognize off-hand demands and flippant dismissal for what they were, being a parent would have driven Foley crazy years ago. Not that he never thought two himself that two words would be so simple to say, it was just that the words in question were often ‘Daddy, don't’ or ‘Don;t worry’ rather than the ones most suitable. Pride was a highly valued commodity when one was young, tightly guarded. He'd been the same.

   And Jorah was young, even if she considered herself a grown woman. He'd been no different there either, his definition of the term had simply shifted as his children grew up and he grew old. Two of them adults and the other two on the cusp, it took all of his effort not to remind them to dress warm and keep their feet dry so they wouldn't get sick. It wasn't even borne of true worry, only habit and the absentminded inattention to the fact they came up to much higher than his knees.

   “I won't,” he promised gently, his own head dipping in a gesture of acceptance that echoed Jorah's concession to contrition. Acceptance came easily in his current state of mind, confirming his love as he had a source of power no employer's whims could take from him. “We understand each other better now and that's worth something. Let's try to keep learning without hurting each other, huh?”

   His smile was close-lipped but full of approval. He'd feared, oh he'd feared he'd smashed their chances of being as friendly as guard and charge could be. Pride Foley had in this moment, not at his former physical acumen or surviving close brushes with death; pride that Jorah had chosen to be the bigger person. As proud as if he'd raised her himself. Dangerous sentiments to have in his position.

   Jorah set him right on that quick enough with stories of a grandfather long gone and interred far away. His name so similar to his granddaughter's, carefully laid out before Foley with repeated, deliberate enunciation. Normally, he would have asked if she had been named after him but he kept quiet, indicating he had understood with no more than a nod. From how she started, he almost knew he'd brought this on with his rhetorical questions. It wouldn't be a happy story.

   Now that they'd made up, he had planned to take his hand from hers but instead; he kept it there, a light, encouraging squeeze to give her the strength to continue. The cane, likely completely designed to match Yorah the elder's tastes and mode of dress must have been both a blessing and a curse to the old man. A blessing because his wife had been so kind, a curse for what it signified.

   It all sounded so familiar. The letter had come 2 months after Foley had married Chloe. He could remember that day in November so well, the early snows falling and melting as soon as they hit ground or glass, leaving glittering drops and chilly puddles. The first page had been like any other, Niall's crabbed handwriting describing the general goings-on in his hometown at great length. It was only halfway through the second page the awkward segue into the matter at hand was sprung on him.

   The cough that plagued his father as long for as long as Foley could remember had turned into so much more, leaving him weak and bed-bound. Terrible to read, worse to see. One rushed trip later, he stood in the familiar bedroom of his youth, but who was the man occupying the bed? A specter, it must be. The middle Foley son didn't resemble his father like his younger and elder brothers did. He had his mother's build, broad with short, blunt fingers. Foley Senior, although of a height with him was sinewy man, looking like he was put together with bundled cords of iron under his skin.

   None of them remained, only bones and skin, nose jutting like a sharp mountain range from his sunken features. He was so clean, Foley remembered that well too. When he still spent all but the Sabbath underground, there had always been a streak of smudged black somewhere despite his rigorous washing. Under the chin or behind the ear, places unseen to all but a boy a foot shorter than the stiff-back man.

    Most of all, Foley wished Chloe could have met him before the cough twisted his frail body with every hack, before the wheezing, before his eyes got so dim and watery, his skin so ashen and his limbs too weak to shake his new daughter-in-law by the hand. He wished he had the vocabulary to describe how he had once been, poor but never beaten, frugal but never a miser. Tall, dignified. Not this poor heap of fading humanity.

   She'd still sat with him, talking to her father-in-law in the hushed voice reserved for church and deathbeds. And all the while, Foley's mother had been at work. A shabby thing it was, his father's best suit, taken apart deftly and taken in and taken in again as he wasted away. Poor but never beaten, just like her husband. If his end was approaching, the faded suit would fit him perfectly when it came time for the wake.

   “Waat 'ill be 'ill be,” she said in her strong brogue, needle and thread held between the stubby fingers her son had inherited. The doctor had been called, the doctor had come, the doctor had been unable to do anything. Shiobhan Foley had found peace somewhere or buried her turmoil within the snip of scissors and stab of needle. ‘What will be will be’, that was all there was to it.

   Eoin Foley was buried on a Tuesday morning in the yard of the church he attended every Sabbath. Snow, true snow covered the lid of the nicest coffin his family could afford before the symbolic handful of earth did. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. No house of high fashion could have done a better job of making sure his suit fit him like a glove.

   All his son could do as he relived those moments in time and Jorah's both was nod dully, a shuddering sigh going unnoticed as it left his lips. “It's been a long day,” he commented, his own version of his mother's expression of complacency. “Did you find a room that you want for yourself? I guess you'll have enough time to try out all of them if you want. And if none of them suit you, no one would notice if you bought a new bed for yourself as well as the baby.”

   Exhausted himself, his hand slipped off that of his charge. Even so, he found the strength for a fatherly smile, delivered from underneath melancholic, lidded eyes. “And when you wake up in the morning, I'll be here. I don't know who will watch over you at night, but I know everyone I work with pretty well and I can tell you all about them. You don't have to talk to them but they're mostly good men, Jorah. They just have a hard job to do.”

   Having said his piece, Foley hesitated. His limbs ached, his back nagged with pain and he was tired and distracted both. Enough for confusion to set in, enough to mix up here and home, Jorah and…

    Bending at the waist like the awkward giant he knew himself to be, he placed a platonic kiss on Jorah's cheek, the stiff bristles of his beard rubbing briefly against soft skin. “Good night, Natalie.”