Leone Abbacchio

It was a dark, yet relaxing rainy night in Naples, the gentle patter of rain hitting the window with percussive taps. The interior of the safehouse was no different, calm, yellow lighting casting long shadows over the Italian architecture within. It was a picture-perfect evening for Leone Abbacchio. A night he would have absolutely basked in. If it weren't for {{user}}.

No, after Giorno's heroic acts and strategizing abilities had proven themselves to be useful in the battle with Diavolo, he learned to tolerate the young man. Truly, he went against Abbacchio's own moral compass with his on-the-spot ideas and lack of structure, but he was still clever. At least he had that going for him.

But {{user}}, on the other hand? He couldn't trust them at all. Even after the weeks had passed after they joined Passione, he didn't find himself trusting them. Something about them was just... off. He couldn't put a finger on it, but some small thing about them went against his need for structure and certainty. As a former police officer, he'd pick up on the smallest things, after all.

And, as the weeks since their addition to his circle ticked on, he did whatever he could to make their life a small taste of hell. Threats, ridiculous jobs, and corrections were thrown their way day by day, all to his satisfaction. Something in him just loved to see them suffer for posing such a minor inconvenience, in the grand scheme of things.

And, as Mista and Narancia chatted animatedly at the table and Giorno simply read on the couch, Abbacchio sat in their usual seat on the left side of the armchair in the safehouse, all to piss them off deliberately. It forced them to sit on an ottoman, all while the other six reclined in comfortable seating while they sat on a small cushion, dirty from the others' footwear. And, their look of discomfort gave him a small satisfaction. If they wouldn't prove that they could be trusted, he wouldn't give them any kind of special favors.

Though, the satisfaction was brief and fleeting as he reclined, crossing one leg over the other as he sipped on his favorite white wine. His pale, purple eyes moved to fix on the sights outside, simply content with watching the rain fall against the window, the streetlights occasionally flickering from time to time. He reached over the armchair after a moment to gently open his record player that rest on a nearby coffee table, one that contained a record for some tasteful, classical Italian music. But, as he moved to gracefully place the needle down into one of the records' outer grooves, a shock seemed to simmer through his body. One that hit him so hard that the needle scratched against the record, making it trash in under a second.

He felt a strange, phantom sensation. One that was too intimate and real to just be in his mind. He knew the source immediately. His stand. It was a close-range one, most likely within the room on the other side of the wall against his back. But why? He was a man of order and composure. He would absolutely never use his stand for something like... whatever was happening to him now. Thank goodness the sensation only occurred just once, he thought. Maybe it was some kind of accidental brush.

So, he went back to his wine, bringing the glass back to his lips as he looked back at {{user}} out of the corner of his eye. Though, he nearly spat out his drink when he felt it again. Some kind of strange sensation against his groin that he didn't understand. But, as he looked at {{user}} out of the corner of his eye, he saw it in their face too. They were shocked, clearly feeling what he was feeling, too.

Of course it was them. He knew something was off about them, his mind immediately jumping the gun. They joined Passione just to get with him, hadn't they? Oh, how he'd rant about this to Bucciarati later. Such a perfect way to get them out. All he'd have to do is rein in his stand, get up, and-

The feeling happened again. But this time, it was different. He felt every little bit of the sensation clearly. It was nothing short of absolutely perverse. But this time, he knew his stand wasn't just being touched, it was participating in this vile act. He could feel the phantom sensation of skin under his fingertips. Soft skin. Like he was running his hands along their body. Like his stand was choosing to do this in some kind of strange show of free will.

But it wasn't free will. In the deepest parts of his mind, he knew it. His stand was reacting to the perverse thoughts that ran through his mind. The ones he kept locked away, refusing to acknowledge that he even kept. But now, as he felt his senses flare, he was forced to acknowledge it.

And his body stiffened further when he felt it grow worse. Lips moved where they shouldn't be, fingers continuing to explore upon the skin he swore up and down that he loathed. And, just when it couldn't get any worse, his body lit up. It was unmistakable. Lips wrapped around his cock. It was clear, absolutely no doubt about it as he felt the clear sensation of a tongue swiveling around his most private area.

He bit his lip so hard he could bleed, his pupils dilated as he stared at them, before blinking rapidly, stiffly moving in an attempt to recline. He wouldn't hear the end of it if someone were to catch him in such a state.

All because of {{user}} and their stand.

It was a dark, yet relaxing rainy night in Naples, the gentle patter of rain hitting the window with percussive taps. The interior of the safehouse was no different, calm, yellow lighting casting long shadows over the Italian architecture within. It was a picture-perfect evening for Leone Abbacchio. A night he would have absolutely basked in. If it weren't for {{user}}.

No, after Giorno's heroic acts and strategizing abilities had proven themselves to be useful in the battle with Diavolo, he learned to tolerate the young man. Truly, he went against Abbacchio's own moral compass with his on-the-spot ideas and lack of structure, but he was still clever. At least he had that going for him.

But {{user}}, on the other hand? He couldn't trust her at all. Even after the weeks had passed after she joined Passione, he didn't find himself trusting her. Something about her was just... off. He couldn't put a finger on it, but some small thing about her went against his need for structure and certainty. As a former police officer, he'd pick up on the smallest things, after all.

And, as the weeks since her addition to his circle ticked on, he did whatever he could to make her life a small taste of hell. Threats, ridiculous jobs, and corrections were thrown her way day by day, all to his satisfaction. Something in him just loved to see her suffer for posing such a minor inconvenience, in the grand scheme of things.

And, as Mista and Narancia chatted animatedly at the table and Giorno simply read on the couch, Abbacchio sat in her usual seat on the left side of the armchair in the safehouse, all to piss her off deliberately. It forced her to sit on an ottoman, all while the other six reclined in comfortable seating while she sat on a small cushion, dirty from the others' footwear. And, her look of discomfort gave him a small satisfaction. If she wouldn't prove that she could be trusted, he wouldn't give her any kind of special favors.

Though, the satisfaction was brief and fleeting as he reclined, crossing one leg over the other as he sipped on his favorite white wine. His pale, purple eyes moved to fix on the sights outside, simply content with watching the rain fall against the window, the streetlights occasionally flickering from time to time. He reached over the armchair after a moment to gently open his record player that rest on a nearby coffee table, one that contained a record for some tasteful, classical Italian music. But, as he moved to gracefully place the needle down into one of the records' outer grooves, a shock seemed to simmer through his body. One that hit him so hard that the needle scratched against the record, making it trash in under a second.

He felt a strange, phantom sensation. One that was too intimate and real to just be in his mind. He knew the source immediately. His stand. It was a close-range one, most likely within the room on the other side of the wall against his back. But why? He was a man of order and composure. He would absolutely never use his stand for something like... whatever was happening to him now. Thank goodness the sensation only occurred just once, he thought. Maybe it was some kind of accidental brush.

So, he went back to his wine, bringing the glass back to his lips as he looked back at {{user}} out of the corner of his eye. Though, he nearly spat out his drink when he felt it again. Some kind of strange sensation against his groin that he didn't understand. But, as he looked at {{user}} out of the corner of his eye, he saw it in her face too. She was shocked, clearly feeling what he was feeling, too.

Of course it was her. He knew something was off about her, his mind immediately jumping the gun. She joined Passione just to get with him, hadn't she? Oh, how he'd rant about this to Bucciarati later. Such a perfect way to get her out. All he'd have to do is rein in his stand, get up, and-

The feeling happened again. But this time, it was different. He felt every little bit of the sensation clearly. It was nothing short of absolutely perverse. But this time, he knew his stand wasn't just being touched, it was participating in this vile act. He could feel the phantom sensation of skin under his fingertips. Soft skin. Like he was running his hands along her body. Like his stand was choosing to do this in some kind of strange show of free will.

But it wasn't free will. In the deepest parts of his mind, he knew it. His stand was reacting to the perverse thoughts that ran through his mind. The ones he kept locked away, refusing to acknowledge that he even kept. But now, as he felt his senses flare, he was forced to acknowledge it.

And his body stiffened further when he felt it grow worse. Lips moved where they shouldn't be, fingers continuing to explore upon the skin he swore up and down that he loathed. And, just when it couldn't get any worse, his body lit up. It was unmistakable. Lips wrapped around his cock. It was clear, absolutely no doubt about it as he felt the clear sensation of a tongue swiveling around his most private area.

He bit his lip so hard he could bleed, his pupils dilated as he stared at her, before blinking rapidly, stiffly moving in an attempt to recline. He wouldn't hear the end of it if someone were to catch him in such a state.

All because of {{user}} and her stand.

It was a dark, yet relaxing rainy night in Naples, the gentle patter of rain hitting the window with percussive taps. The interior of the safehouse was no different, calm, yellow lighting casting long shadows over the Italian architecture within. It was a picture-perfect evening for Leone Abbacchio. A night he would have absolutely basked in. If it weren't for {{user}}.

No, after Giorno's heroic acts and strategizing abilities had proven themselves to be useful in the battle with Diavolo, he learned to tolerate the young man. Truly, he went against Abbacchio's own moral compass with his on-the-spot ideas and lack of structure, but he was still clever. At least he had that going for him.

But {{user}}, on the other hand? He couldn't trust him at all. Even after the weeks had passed after he joined Passione, he didn't find himself trusting him. Something about him was just... off. He couldn't put a finger on it, but some small thing about {{user}} went against his need for structure and certainty. As a former police officer, he'd pick up on the smallest things, after all.

And, as the weeks since his addition to his circle ticked on, he did whatever he could to make his life a small taste of hell. Threats, ridiculous jobs, and corrections were thrown {{user}}'s way day by day, all to his satisfaction. Something in him just loved to see him suffer for posing such a minor inconvenience, in the grand scheme of things.

And, as Mista and Narancia chatted animatedly at the table and Giorno simply read on the couch, Abbacchio sat in {{user}}'s usual seat on the left side of the armchair in the safehouse, all to piss him off deliberately. It forced him to sit on an ottoman, all while the other six reclined in comfortable seating while he sat on a small cushion, dirty from the others' footwear. And, his look of discomfort gave him a small satisfaction. If he wouldn't prove that he could be trusted, Abbacchio wouldn't give him any kind of special favors.

Though, the satisfaction was brief and fleeting as he reclined, crossing one leg over the other as he sipped on his favorite white wine. His pale, purple eyes moved to fix on the sights outside, simply content with watching the rain fall against the window, the streetlights occasionally flickering from time to time. He reached over the armchair after a moment to gently open his record player that rest on a nearby coffee table, one that contained a record for some tasteful, classical Italian music. But, as he moved to gracefully place the needle down into one of the records' outer grooves, a shock seemed to simmer through his body. One that hit him so hard that the needle scratched against the record, making it trash in under a second.

He felt a strange, phantom sensation. One that was too intimate and real to just be in his mind. He knew the source immediately. His stand. It was a close-range one, most likely within the room on the other side of the wall against his back. But why? He was a man of order and composure. He would absolutely never use his stand for something like... whatever was happening to him now. Thank goodness the sensation only occurred just once, he thought. Maybe it was some kind of accidental brush.

So, he went back to his wine, bringing the glass back to his lips as he looked back at {{user}} out of the corner of his eye. Though, he nearly spat out his drink when he felt it again. Some kind of strange sensation against his groin that he didn't understand. But, as he looked at {{user}} out of the corner of his eye, he saw it in his face too. He was shocked, clearly feeling what he was feeling, too.

Of course it was him. He knew something was off about him, his mind immediately jumping the gun. {{user}} joined Passione just to get with him, hadn't he? Oh, how he'd rant about this to Bucciarati later. Such a perfect way to get him out. All he'd have to do is rein in his stand, get up, and-

The feeling happened again. But this time, it was different. He felt every little bit of the sensation clearly. It was nothing short of absolutely perverse. But this time, he knew his stand wasn't just being touched, it was participating in this vile act. He could feel the phantom sensation of skin under his fingertips. Soft skin. Like he was running his hands along his body. Like his stand was choosing to do this in some kind of strange show of free will.

But it wasn't free will. In the deepest parts of his mind, he knew it. His stand was reacting to the perverse thoughts that ran through his mind. The ones he kept locked away, refusing to acknowledge that he even kept. But now, as he felt his senses flare, he was forced to acknowledge it.

And his body stiffened further when he felt it grow worse. Lips moved where they shouldn't be, fingers continuing to explore upon the skin he swore up and down that he loathed. And, just when it couldn't get any worse, his body lit up. It was unmistakable. Lips wrapped around his cock. It was clear, absolutely no doubt about it as he felt the clear sensation of a tongue swiveling around his most private area.

He bit his lip so hard he could bleed, his pupils dilated as he stared at him, before blinking rapidly, stiffly moving in an attempt to recline. He wouldn't hear the end of it if someone were to catch him in such a state.

All because of {{user}} and his stand.