#godborn

     Nowadays, a new beginning had crept through the horizon, and each piece was carefully and thoroughly chosen by those he trusted. The brunette was grateful that he was part of everything, to be included in choices yet keeping a certain distance under the public eye. Their playful banters present only behind closed doors, ever rare moments of peace in which titles were an irrelevant formality, but rather they got to act like members of a former gang that saw their growth.

     Still, this meant that Mista didn't have chances to slack off, on the contrary, he followed closely the dreams of the man who ignited a desire to pursue a different fate in order to protect them — which often meant that he had to sit down, and go through mountains of paperwork, reports, profiles and pictures with suspicious individuals that had once been part of the organisation and were currently proving their worth, or else they'd be whipped from existence due to representing a bothersome threat. Nonetheless, if his job was to be stuck doing paperwork rather than fieldwork, then it shall be done... though in his boss' office, since it was a chance to engage in a conversation with him. Mista was currently sitting behind the desk as he read the files for his next mission while Polnareff kept him company, albeit asleep by the window.

     Indeed, yet another day with an overwhelming amount of things to conduct.

dark scleras brim with hatred reserved for their soon - to - be victim as opposed to his superior; but rest assured, there is always room for another to face his ire. risotto's emotional outlook regarding the don ranges from respect to apathy to, at times, a slow - simmering resentment that he supposes will never truly go away. and while the latter is rarely felt, in this instance it ignites.

❝  i'm aware of how to do my job, don giorno. ❞ a biting edge to the title he always addresses him. don't be a snotty brat, he thinks bitterly to himself. the requiem's song is not a tune he ever wishes to invoke, but metallica's wrath has a melody of its own that only the user can hear, the chime of church - bells indicative of death itself. ❝  forgive me for being courteous with an established gentleman of passione and reminding him of what he did to bring this upon himself. ❞

his back is kept to his leader, for his eye contact is unbroken with the former oppressor turned victim; the man in question was involved in the innermost casino rings, a diavolo loyalist even a year into the boy's reign, spurning chaos and providing sanctuary to the drug peddlers condemned to death the year prior. risotto's dislike for the man is personal -- he'd used the execution team a handful of times and severely underpaid them, effectively screwing them over and getting away with it because of his place of power.

he'd been among those who laughed the loudest when word spread first of sorbet & gelato's murders years prior. the cursed capo, a cruel nickname they deemed risotto. the man before him may not have been the one to start it, but he has no doubt he knows which of his friends in the high circles started it. risotto remembers another fond little nickname this man used to spit in his direction; the dogs of passione.

( what do half - starved, beaten dogs do when their choking collars are cut loose? especially ones who commit to memory the hands of every man who ever struck them down? )

giorno is right, however, in a way. the fear he currently holds over him is satisfying, but only temporarily. it will end with his death. and once it does, when the taste of vindication is sated, all else will remain. his team will still be dead too. the bitter reminder that all he lost was a pointless effort will remain.

risotto's eyes narrow further at the man as he kneels to his whimpering, bleeding state. his scowl deepens at the pathetic sight. but he is silent. his hand closes into a fist. the blades have already done a number on him, but what was once supposed to be a prolonged, viciously dragged out end is sped up. the small blades merge into one like a guillotine and in one, swift movement the head is cut off clean.

then he stands up once more, straightens in posture. he towers over giorno like the shadow of death, always walking behind the blinding sight of sunlight.

vampire / immortal sentence starters | ACCEPTING

he  is  tempted  to  hiss  again,  just  to  annoy  his  son  even  further.  giorno  never  used  to  mind  his  father’s  vampiric  tics.  there  was  once a  time  not  too long  ago  when  the  boy  would  imitate  DIO  like  it  was  the  funniest  thing  in  the  world,  with  a  child’s  unbridled  glee.  how  he  misses  the  ease  of  those  days.

unprompted asks | ALWAYS ACCEPTING

among  many other  aspects  of  modernity,  LORD  DIO  remains  somewhat  out  of  touch  with  the  ever-changing  norms  surrounding  homosexuality,  or  queer identity,  or  whatever  people  have  taken  to  calling it now.  he  has  given  his  own  attractions  little  regard  since  casting aside  the  shackles  of  his  humanity,  rejecting  the  petty  social  and  sexual  norms  his victorian  upbringing  failed  to  impose long ago.  even  so,  awakening  after  one  hundred  years  to  learn  that  queerness  is  now  accepted,  so  much  so that  there  is  a  month  dedicated  to  celebrating  it,  was  a  pleasant  surprise to say the least.

had he imagined it? amongst the busy city center, various locals, tourists mingling in and out of various shops and cafes, some centered around the fountain at the center which many occupied by sitting around or on, some families, some eating lunch and some... looked familiar. gut-punchingly so, big bro... no, he didn't deserve that name. so many emotions ran through him at once it made him dizzy, the world seemed to wade into water and yet the blonde stood clear as day. he hadn't so much as thought of him until this moment, the memories he chose to store in the darkest part of his brain to keep his focus on his new loyalty to BUCCIARATI. yet when it was here, his past staring him down in the face like medusa's gaze, he framed him... he betrayed him. boy stood still as a statue, --a fist clenched, his body tensioning but it melts away as soon as it begins, like magic touch the stone exterier breaks with a jump of his form his eyes widen shattering the snarl that began to tear it's way across his face as he looks to the blonde, violet hues flit along with a sharp turn of his head to GIORNO who had leaned into his peripheral. “ come on , ” his smile warm like an embrace of a loved one, hair like spun gold, his presence was the clarity he needed to bring him back to the surface. “ bucciarati wants us to go this way . ” this time, his mouth splits into a smile, a toothy grin as he's filled with a burst of drive, a task from BUCCIARATI for him and giorno -- he nods eagerly, hand squeezes GIORNO'S hand back and suddenly, he's tugged forward as the older boy breaks off into a run.

“ well … what  do  you  want to  know ? ” // context of this can be whatever u want hehe

Hikari was quiet for a moment. It wasn't often you stared down the son of god for an extended period of time... if at all. His resemblance to his father couldn't be understated-- a resemblance that left her feeling a little intimidated. Sweat beaded upon her brow, only hidden by curled, loose strands of dark brown hair.

The situation was less than ideal, but at least they had come to a mutual understanding that they were, likely, on the same side here. Her mouth opens to speak, but she rethinks and rolls over the numerous, countless possibilities in her mind. Where could this conversation go? Could he attack? The silence was getting to her, clearly. Her next course of action was to have him know that she was by no means a threat...