Wild Cards (JJBA Villains x Reader)

18- Sickly, Sickening

Someone call D'Arby, the boys are fighting again.

I'm so devastatingly in love with Pucci I'm so sorry you keep seeing him in here but i love him to pieces its so unhealthy please listen to me when I tell you I'd makeout with him if i saw him walking on the street he's so. beautiful and wonderful and i love him araki what did you do

I PROMISE I'm gonna do chapters on the other employees i just need to get over my obsession w/ pucci and his fine ass

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There is too much work in the world and not enough time to do it all for you to be dealing with this.

On the brink of death you wake, something claws at the back of your throat, a particularly harsh sore developing in your back already, and you hadn't even sat down to begin your workload yet.

A night spent on the couch is punishment, as comfortable though it may be; there is no support of any kind, and convinces you to embrace is cheap cushion with false promises of a tender rest.

You groan as you sit upright, peeling free of a blanket you don't quite remember fetching yourself last night. The window just behind the couch is a disturbing alarm with its chattering birds and busy roads, and today is a horrible morning.

The black office chair, at this point your second skin, invites you into a stiff embrace, and already you wish you hadn't woken up; your suit warm with sleep and thick with tire. It was disgusting to function in, but you had no other choice.

Diavolo must be having the sleep of his life in your room, and you don't blame him. The beds provided, you're aware, are not the comfiest, but also are the only ones you have at the ready that can fit men over six foot. 

Though, you'd kill for a night in your own bed again. It'll be almost week before that happens.

Something scrapes at the back of your throat, and you are forced into a coughing fit at the irritation. It leaves your eyes watering, and a slight pain in your chest by the end of it.

You've only just woken, the influence of the sandman you're yet to be sober of, and there's a knock at your door. 

A confirmation of entry, an acknowledgement, something tries to make itself known and invite whoever asks your permission inside-- a rather relieving sneeze comes instead, and suddenly your whole world becomes easier to bare. Just for a moment.

"Come in," You finally say.

It's Doppio, a very much surprise to you, as it's been a while since you've had a solid interaction with him. In his hand, poorly hidden behind the door as you're sure he intends to obscure it, is a very poor flower.

"Good evening, Mx. (Y/n)," He says in a hesitant voice, and you have to pause. Evening?

This is a nightmare. You flash your watch, of which its print has molded to your skin from sleeping with it-- it is evening, you've slept half the day away. How?

Something catches in the back of your throat again, and you have to swallow the urge to burst into a hurricane of coughs once more as he speaks. You make almost a pained face as you wave for him to continue, only quietly clearing your throat after the fact.

Doppio steps inside fully, and the poor, droopy flower sits tight between his sweating hands, bobbing as he comes closer. "You haven't seemed to be in the best mood recently, and, I know you have lots of work to do..."

Your ears pound a deafness into your skull as a migraine sets in, a groan crawls out of your mouth beneath your breath-- and Doppio hears it and freezes.