From inside his terrarium, Polnareff had a limited perspective of the world, each day observing the events of the grand house on the shores of Naples. He’d grown into his role as an advisor, but when it came to matters of business only—he had less experience when it came to matters of the heart. While Giorno was young enough to be his son, Polnareff struggled to be something of a father figure. Why, the boy was so grown… even if he knew nothing about love.
It was painful to watch, really; Mista, who denied himself out of fear and superstition, and Giorno who sabotaged and punished himself.
At his wits end, Polnareff came to wonder if Mista was right. Perhaps 2004 really was a cursed year.
Or, a giomis story told from Polnareff’s POV
9 chapters/80k/complete
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
With his legs crossed Giorno leaned on the covered armrest with his elbow, laid his other hand on his knee and tilting his head he averted his gaze. “Well, the truth is, Mr Polnareff,” he said lightly. “I’m afraid it’s not something you could do anything about.”
In that moment, a shiver seized the dome of Polnareff’s shell as he saw the first sign of a great unease, appearing like a large undefined shape moving under the surface of the ocean. Giorno watched the shadows with his wispy, wavy hair still above his head, his eyes unmoving. Whenever Polnareff spoke of his father, Giorno would make that face; his forehead perfectly smooth, his lips thinning and his eyes distant. Then, he would speak in a detached manner and after he left, Polnareff would not see him for at least a few days, lest it was strictly business. If Polnareff could sweat, he would, and if his cheeks could flush, they might have, too. There were some advantages to this form, after all. “Well,” Polnareff said kindly, hoping Giorno wouldn't think less of him for what he was about to say, “I could always listen. You know?”
Giorno's face became a profile against the wallpaper. “I suppose,” he said yet again, and Polnareff came to wonder how well he truly knew him. Despite their countless long talks over the past few years Giorno's trust was like a matchstick flame. If you got too close, your breath would be enough to put it out.
[...]
“So, what?” Polnareff spoke to him pointedly. “Just because he’s been avoiding you for a bit, you’re gonna hold it against him forever? Is that what a friend does?” Mista was a dreadfully irrational and hard-headed person at his worst, always living within his own images of the world, but the layers of delusion were thin and he was sober through his down to earth nature. All Polnareff had to do was shake his logic up a bit, surely.
“You know, I think I get it. I finally get it,” Mista said, his voice clear in the silence, Polnareff’s plight outright ignored. “I used to think I was different. But I'm not,” there was a fleeting quality to that very same clarity. Polnareff listened with his feet digging into the soft earth, his claws spreading anxiously. “I used to be a drifter. No attachments whatsoever. And that had changed already before I met him, but,” he shrugged, his shoulders rising against the draping orange light. He wavered and his body sank yet again, his fingernails scraping against the wooden surface of the table. “But that guy—or kid, that I used to be, he barely even feels like me anymore,” he hung his head. “Maybe that's normal. I dunno. But sometimes… sometimes, it really just feels like…” his voice diminished pitifully. “Like he's just gonna gobble me up. Swallow me whole,” his confession was quiet and tensely truthful, and Polnareff couldn’t seem to absorb it, “and leave nothing behind. And it's like,” Mista gesticulated with his other hand, tensing and curling his fingers, clutching in the air. “Nothing's ever enough—”
[...]
The boys were truly hopeless, Polnareff thought. Mista was ready to live out his borrowed days however he pleased, only self-indulgent, but once his manufactured little scenario had played out he would simply don his layers of denial and walk away. Then, at the end of the day, once all his work-related anxieties had been aired out, Giorno would surely sit in his room upstairs, washing his face, unbraiding his hair and setting his curls with as much boyish and blackhearted lovesickness as his disposition would allow. Giorno was mature. He was not impervious to matters of the heart. As for Mista, he was very clever. He was sweet, but not always the most considerate.
KAKATTE KOI !! 🍈🍒
— its been a while since i did a piece as big as this since i hadnt had the confidence to do anything more than busts, but i really like how exaggerated and cool the sprites in hftf look and i guess it just kinda inspired me to attempt a bigger crop and draw one of the sprites !! im actually happy with the colours, i really like the saturated pastelish colours and from my experience with working with light colours, i did not expect it to go this well :)c
AU where Trash Dad dies very early (the better version) OR he and Sakura somehow agree on co-parenting or something (the worse but maybe more fun version).
In third place, the Ushiromiya family, from Umineko When They Cry!
In second place, the Zoldycks from Hunter x Hunter!
And our first place winners are the Asanos, from Assassination Classroom!
Congratulations to Gakuhou and Gakushuu Asano for being voted the most dysfunctional family! With only two inital submissions and not being the main characters of their media, these two may have been underestimated but in round after round, they kept going, beating a series of popular oponents and larger families. Their dysfunction strikes a chord in many people, winning a place in their heart and on the podium.
This tournament has made these past four months a little more interesting for me, and I hope for all of you as well! It wouldn't have been the same without all of your engagement. I had a delightful time reading your comments, reblogs, and messages. Thank you for submitting, voting, writing propaganda, and being part of this wild ride.