Wild Cards (JJBA Villains x Reader)

25| Needles and Other Pricks Like You

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WITITNG ON MO BILE IGNORE MSITKA ES PLEAE

LONG CHAPTER FOR IGNORING U GUYS SO LONG PLEASE TELL ME I HAVENT LOST MPST OF YOU

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"I haven't been here since a man shot himself in front of me."

As electricity rushes through the lights, a flickering show of abandoned studio, of arts and creation. A glimmering audience, the light that shines off of them, sparkling silver eyes that stare with dangerous points.

Some were rusted, others simply old. A few, still in their wrapper on a table. 

Why are there so many?

 The smell of alcohol and metal gently leaves you and the horrid bright fluorescent lights bring you somewhere kinder as they soften against your glazed eyes. 

There is a hard hit to your shoulder and crown, something threatens to creep up your throat as they don't stop looking why don't they stop looking?

It's all a mess, when water rushes over chalk art, where the colors bleed into each other and soon turn cold. You only see colors meet each other in grotesque mixes.

Groggy, your senses return to you and bring you a feeling not so kind. Empty stomach, parched throat and light-headedness-- your back is against something hard.

The world is something soft and welcoming just out of reach. You feel comfortable but you are not welcome, a blanket of kindness made of paper you are searching for some sanction of oasis but all of it is fake in the eyes of those silver glares. 

They're still looking at you.

A body comes around the corner of whatever chair-bed-board-table-thing you've come to yourself on. You don't quite recognize it's Doppio until you spot a pretty curl of his obnoxious pink hair peek out from beneath a baseball cap.

He tugs on the end of his rubber gloves. You think he's mocking you.

"Are you doing ok?" He says. "You passed out cold on the floor, I was about to call Diavolo to come help with you if you didn't wake up after twenty minutes."

"...How long was I gone?"

"Eighteen."

Pulsating; The brain is writhing; it's jumping beneath your bone. It slams itself to the front of your skull as if to try and kill itself, but you know brain-suicide is only a migraine.

Your eyes flick back to meet theirs, all of them, acknowledging each one, and a whimper evades the tightening of your lips as one of those silver eyes looks at you particularly nasty.

Doppio squats down to your level, decorated arms stretching to meet hand to face. His thumb swipes just beneath your eye, and he flicks a drop of something elsewhere. 

"Are you scared?" He asks.

You work up an offended face, lips moving to bare a threatening scowl as if to dare have him say it again, to suggest you are scared of those silver eyes, but against your will it downturns into a frown, an open frown that lets one, two, three deep heaves escape out from a dry throat.

Doppio swipes beneath your eye once more, then moves to the other. Were you crying? You weren't sure. Your arms are heavy. Your head hurts.

You don't break contact with the eyes, perhaps scared if you were to look away for one moment they'd attack, sic you with their singular pointed tooth, sharpened to perfection.