Wild Cards (JJBA Villains x Reader)

24| Disfigured

(A portion of this chapter is taken from a writing bit inspired by artist fiona.livv in their short comic dedicated to the Walten Files. Go check it out, it's really well done!)

why the FUCK is my publish button blue guys help why isnt it orange this is weird where my orange button pls bring it back im sc. wared

cw: mention/description of SH

also format change so its easier to read :p

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A silence befalls you, in some odd manner, that of which could only describe as confusion. Not stunned confusion, or surprised confusion, a slight 'huh' at what you'd found.

Pucci had a wrap suffocating his ankle, elevated on the end of some couch you didn't remember; his head rested on a pillow, facing you as it turned.

"Have you hurt yourself again?" You jest. "That'd be the third time, in recent."

"Fifth, you weren't present for a few." He sighed, leaning up and taking his foot to the coffee table. "But I'm alright, I assure you."

"I wasn't worried."

"You were," He says, "You'd lost that wicked face for a moment."

As if to check, a finger came to your cheek, brushing the soft glove to your skin for a moment before it retracted.

The cushion is empty beside him, ignoring his bronzed hand that patted it in invitation. Antique designs grew along the fabric, housing a collection of dust and pills, so clean yet not quite enough to suggest that no one may have used it at all.

You drop at his side, a huff coming from the cushion as you sink, a shout into the silence of the home. As your hand reaches for his foot, you ask, "Where has everyone gone, do you know?"

Pucci looks to you. "Why are you touching me?"

"Give me a moment," You rest his foot on your thigh, and examine the agitated points of his muscles. It is then, the root of the problem is found; a deformed-- or a more reasonable term would be disfigured-- left foot. It's assumed the right may be no different.

You take it into your hands despite his protests, how he whines about how no action of this sort is necessary, rest will fix all ails, so on, so forth. Thumbs press into the pads of the skin, and a pained whimper comes in response.

But that whimper soon dies in his throat, the tensed muscles relax and the pain, though still present, dies slowly like the ember of a cigarette butt.

"You don't need to do this, I only need a few minutes to walk again, and I understand that the sight- let alone feel of it- may disgust-"

"You will not bring up any insecurity around me again on this. It is not something you may help, so do not treat it as a burden."

Pucci stills his words in the back of his throat, and quiets as you work. You do not see it, that much he is sure of, but once more he has found a soft face in a cold person, gentle hands within an iron fist.